A Storm of Soldiers and Spells, Steam and Swords
by ElMarquis
Summary: Towards the end of a lengthy career as a soldier in the British Army, Harry is faced with conflict on multiple fronts. In one moment, he confronts the result of twenty years of non-interference in the magical world allowing the strength of the purists to rise and a struggle in the non-magical world where politicians and soldiery draw the line of battle. At the centre, Harry Potter.
1. Chapter 1

**December 2009, Ravenscroft Manor, Kent.**

 _The Fellowship of 1986 is to reunite at Weathertop with Gandalf. The spared orcs have been quietly suppressing the Hobbits, and the Númenóreans have ignored it. There must be a second Fellowship._

Snorting in amusement as he read the note, Harry glanced at his puzzled squad mates, arrayed around the room. Had it not been that if he hadn't accepted the post and promotion with it, he would still have been a colonel and quite happy to get involved in a good firefight. As it was, he was a brevet brigadier and the Director of Special Forces, although he had another brigadier handling the paperwork, the public side of things and being Harry's yes-man.

"It's a note from Hermione. People who attended Hogwarts around the same time are meeting at Hogwarts with Dumbledore. The purists who were not at Little Hangleton have been, once again, oppressing the first-born magicals. She reckons we need to make a concerted effort against this." Harry explained. "Couched in Tolkienesque rubbish to confuse and delay cracking if intercepted by anyone who might have an interest in us."

"So, what shall we do?" asked Nicholas Zacarias, a Staff Sergeant of Filipino birth.

"Do? We'll do nothing as yet." Harry frowned sharply; "The first thing I'll do is meet with Hermione and work out a date for the meeting, I'll undoubtedly try to be there, or bug the meeting to get an idea of the lay of the land. Don't forget I have only attended one wedding, a murder and a funeral in the magical world since I left Hogwarts."

"What can we do to prepare?" asked Amy, his Special Reconnaissance Regiment officer, and the one of them least susceptible to jumping the gun or suffering from blood lust. "If it comes to conflict."

"The bomb and the shell is the best way of dealing with such a situation. The purists are much beloved of their great homes, which make fair targets." Harry said thoughtfully, ignoring the irony that he was sat behind the thick walls of his own great manor, once a castle of great power; "Though ambush tactics work well enough if you can lure an enemy into a crossfire at sufficient range to render the wand a useless weapon. Thoughts for another time, I don't want another bloody war. Sirius should be of some use if I can drag him out of whichever nudist utopia he's living in."

"Amsterdam." Jock interrupted.

"Lovely." Harry muttered, turning to a couple of boardgames of some great age, one of chess and one of tafl. The moves were irrelevant and he rarely played, but they were symbolic objects, reminders that there was always a game to be played. And it wasn't of ivory and ebony upon a wooden board, but of flesh and fire.

* * *

 **December 2009, Hogwarts Castle, Scotland.**

" _Radio check, radio check, over._ " came the whispered words over the headset Harry was listening to, concealed in one of the many secret places he knew of in the castle.

"Five by five, crystal clear Hermione. I have visual from the locket camera." he replied, glancing at a small screen velcroed to his left wrist.

" _I'll be going silent soon. We're about to meet in the Great Hall, with students on holiday, Dumbledore's cleared it for our meeting with him._ " Hermione informed him.

"Good." Harry stated, not informing Hermione that he even knew a secret way into the rafters of the hall.

A few floors away, descending gracefully from his office, stepping off the revolving staircase and passing the saluting gargoyle, the headmaster, Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore adjusted his black-and-white checked robes. He didn't usually go for something quite so dull, but as he was moving the pieces into position on his board, he felt it ironic. It hadn't been hard to work out why the most influential students of their generation wished to meet with him, after all, he was quietly allowing the purists to further their agenda, mere pawns to flush out a powerful and unpredictable queen which lay somewhere beyond the confines of his board. Harry Potter.

He tapped into the orb set in the Headmaster's throne, an seeing stone of ancient make. Already assembled were those who had called this meeting. Hermione Granger, who, if his suspicions were right, was at least still an acquaintance if not working for the queen in question and therefore a valuable piece in herself.

Then there was Lady Regent Daphne Greengrass, Lady Regent Astoria Malfoy, the fifteen-year old twin sons of the latter. Ronald Weasley, a successful Quidditch Manager and journalist, Katie Bell, an influential philanthropist and captain of the Holyhead Harpies. Frederick and George Weasley of Weasley's Wizard Wheezes, successful inventors and businessmen, their wives, also Harpies, Angelina and Alicia Weasley, and the wife of Ron, Lavender Weasley, a fashion designer and wealthy in her own right. Lord Neville Longbottom, philanthropist, nobleman, politician, gardening journalist and occasional herbology lecturer, and his wife Hannah. Lady Susan Bones, Auror First Class. Justin Finch-Fletchley, politician and lawyer. Anthony Goldstein, investment banker. Ernest Macmillan, political commentator. Colin Creevey, photographer and journalist. Ginevra Weasley, another player of Quidditch. Luna Lovegood, employee of the Ministry of Magic's Beings Division and possible Unspeakable.

As Dumbledore entered, he was pleased to note that they rose from seating around a table to allow him to join him, giving him all due respect of a wizard of his stature. Though the table was round, which meant it had no head. And apart from one for himself, there was another empty seat.

"Good morning to all of you, it is indeed a rare pleasure to have so many former students return to our beloved Hogwarts after their time as students in these halls." Dumbledore greeted them.

"Headmaster, thank you." the batting opened from an unexpected direction with the cold, sharp and crystal clear tones of Daphne Greengrass, the Regent Head of her family; "I believe you have some idea of why we're here."

That caught him off balance. Being left with the conversation in his corner, Dumbledore either had to plead ignorance and lose some of his power with the sacrifice of his omniscient aura, or admit that he knew what the problem was.

"I carefully studied the situation since I received your request Lady Greengrass." he replied graciously; "I have heard disturbing rumours about increases in taxes on the homes and businesses of the muggleborn, the tightening of laws to preserve the traditional ways of the magical community."

"Indeed." Dumbledore felt caught in a narrow-eyed gaze; "I had feared Headmaster, that as your concentration with your school increased, that your attention to the politics necessitated by your positions outwith these hallowed halls had waned." that was a painful barb. She was inferring that either he was neglecting his positions, or neglecting Hogwarts.

"A student once told me, that no matter what I do in the great chamber of the Wizengamot to change laws, to change minds, it could all be done twenty, thirty years earlier in this very castle." Dumbledore stated, remembering a very sharp comment made by his queen one day. "That, if not every, then a goodly number of mistakes made in adult years stems in one fashion or another from other's mistakes in younger years."

"Nonetheless, some of these mistakes rest with not merely the mistaken, but those who nurtured them." Daphne countered; "I see with no little sadness that peers of twenty years ago are now opponents."

"Ever will rivalry grip at humans, striving to make themselves more powerful, richer, more prominent, than another human. It is part of the human condition." explained Dumbledore, despite hearing no sadness in his sparring partner's voice, only a hint of mild contempt, and was that... _excitement_?

"Professor Dumbledore. What holdings I have in the magical world would be subject to these restrictions, and become a financial burden on me." Hermione Granger took over the grilling; "My actions would be a swift liquidation of assets into gold currency and from there into non-magical money. However, if a hundred or a thousand of my ilk, muggleborns, were to do the same, flooding the magical market with cheap property and draining gold reserves from Gringotts, what do you think would happen?"

"I believe the phrase is, Miss Hermione, financial upheaval. All sorts of crisis can occur from such an event." Ernie Macmillan offered. "Not to mention the loss of workers in the form of the muggleborn, for they take many jobs that the aristocracy would not touch. A glut of workers, the collapse of much business and trade..."

"There comes a point, Headmaster, when the preservation of magical traditions, a worthy cause, can come to the point that we are slowly dragging a blade across our own throats, as is happening now." Daphne Greengrass returned to leading the discussion.

"Then why not stand against it?" asked Dumbledore, though knowing fully why.

"Between us, we cannot muster the political power. Seated at this table there are, excluding yourself, the Wizengamot members, myself, my sister, Lord Longbottom and Lady Bones." Daphne riposted; "Nor do we have the power to unite the factions in the wizarding world, many of whom will disagree on the weather simply to spite one-another. However, we know how the Blood War began. The Dark Lord's men in politics slowly crushed the muggleborn, sapped trade, sapped money from the ministry, and then struck."

"We have no dark lord." Dumbledore pointed out; "Whatever remained of him arrived at Hogwarts on the night of the last task of the Triwizard Tournament, along with many of his marked, and Peter Pettigrew. Each dead, Pettigrew suffering the blood eagle and impalement, with Voldemort flayed alive and impaled."

"Pettigrew was a traitor and crossed the Potters." Katie Bell interrupted; "Voldemort, and yes, I can say his name for he is twenty years slain, was a murderer. A just vengeance and justice was exacted that night."

"I feel then you look to the wrong one to bring about this unity you wish, Lady Greengrass, for what would you have me do?" the aged, slightly frail look appeared on Dumbledore.

The elder of the twin sons of Astoria Greengrass shot to his feet.

"We would have you speak _with_ us. Not for us, but alongside us." he challenged across the table, a very familiar tone ringing about the hall. Dumbledore scrutinised the young man very carefully. Dark brown hair, almost black, brushed somewhat flat, though it still retained a roguish waviness. Piercing green eyes that blazed with challenge at him... the old wizard snapped to his younger brother and found such similarities. He began to put a few thoughts together.

Draco Malfoy, married Astoria Malfoy and got her pregnant on their wedding night. He drunkenly stumbled out of the manor on that Winter Solstice, having drunk such great quantities of an American distilled grain spirit that he had alcohol poisoning such as rendered his liver unusable. The alcohol lowered his body temperature until he suffered multiple organ failure, yet somehow still lived long enough to come back in, fall down the stairs into the ballroom, breaking his neck on the edge of a great punch-fountain and toppling into it, drowning in the process. And of all the guests, who would have happily killed the groom and bedded the bride?

"I fear Lord Adrian, that my assistance is of little use, for now, though I retain posts and titles of courtesy, my bones are weary and my voice no longer commands wizards as once it did. My deeds grow faint of memory and my adversaries no longer command fear when their names are uttered." Dumbledore slowly shook his head, deliberately changing his posture to shrink into his chair.

"Nonetheless you still command respect among any who have learnt from you." Adrian Malfoy countered evenly; "Do not think less of yourself as the years progressed. Fading memory does not make actions better or worse."

Dumbledore made a show of slightly straightening his back and sitting taller.

"I take your words as great comfort." he stated with a slight smile of approval. He did indeed approve, and also the boy was solidifying his theory. Nothing he had said was entirely a compliment, for every blade had two edges. Adrian Malfoy was given to cautious words but with a hint of bite about them, 'actions better or worse' did not express universal approval of him. "I fell nonetheless that it must be from a younger generation that a leader must be chosen."

"Professor, I'm an Auror, a noblewoman, politician and I try to do my bit for the people." Susan Bones stared him down; "If I was to stand forward as a leader here, there is a chance I'd be accepted. But I would be of no use before the Wizengamot, laughed at as a woman, a woman doing a man's job, a noblewoman playing the lesser part of an Auror, a mere employee of the Ministry. Look around the table here, are there any here with the experience at the negotiating table, fighting or leading men. I've not had more than a few backstreet duels in nearly fifteen years of being an Auror during this watchful peace, I've not led men in combat, I am not capable of leading a force of change like this. And if any other believes they can truly do so, then I ask they stand up."

None stood.

"I fear then this is a decision you must take, and look further and deeper for leadership." Dumbledore sighed.

"It does not take a fool to see to where you would lead us Headmaster." the younger twin commented, Aidan Greengrass, evenly watching Dumbledore but tapping out a pattern on the table with one hand, his right leg crossed over his left as he sat at an angle in his chair. "But your protégé left the magical world for parts unknown nigh-on twenty years ago. Left in a flurry of blood and upheaval, only returning once, four years later for my mother's wedding, and that for less than two days before he once again vanished."

"The name Potter nonetheless has power." Dumbledore countered.

"The name Potter commands power in the forms of fear and respect, yet it is but a formless phantom for it has no substance, none who bears the name has been seen in a decade." Aidan stated.

"There are those amongst us who are learned in the ways of magic, there are those amongst us who were counted by him as friends, some as more than that, and can none of us seek him out?" Dumbledore asked, staring over the rims of his half-moon spectacles at those seated at the table.

Hermione was too well-trained to shift in her seat as the gaze swept over her.

"Harry was ever a person of secrets." Katie Bell admitted; "That he had many secrets was one secret not kept from his friends. It was something you accepted or you did not get close to him. It was also no secret that if Harry did not wish to be found, that he could not be found."

" _Agree to try and find me, but delay it._ " a small voice ordered in Hermione's ear, the one ear covered by her hair as it was styled to cover that side and her shoulder.

"Harry, however, had associates and his own patterns that we could try and use to make contact." Hermione said thoughtfully; "I heard that the day that the Wizengamot banned half-giants from working in wizarding jobs, that Hagrid received a new job outwith Hogwarts. Harry was always fond of Hagrid. Sirius Black is another, though the Ministry still has yet to officially pardon him or dismiss the charges against him. Remus Lupin a third. Find one, even better if we find more and we could track down and make contact with Harry."

"That would be excellent Miss Granger." Dumbledore beamed at one of his favoured students.

"Headmaster, do not think that I will attempt to force or pressure Harry into anything. Twenty years gone and I still count Harry amongst my dearest friends, one of my first." Hermione said severely. "I hold dear the years we spent together at Hogwarts, he was a significant part in making me what I am today, a debt not easily repaid."

" _If my heart wasn't a chunk of black ice encased in granite, I'd almost be touched._ " that horrid little voice in her head commented. Hermione made a mental note to smack Harry over the back of the head next time she saw him.

"I would have Harry lead you, because he balances an old name of great prestige, a great deal of respect, and a touch of fear of him alone, and he always had that natural charisma to which people flocked." Dumbledore explained.

"Professor, Miss Granger, would it not be simpler to contact the estates of the Potter Family, or their representative at Gringotts bank?" asked Anthony Goldstein, the investment banker.

"The Ministry only has a record of estates founded after the creation of the Ministry." Dumbledore shook his head; "Nor indeed is that complete. The Potters were ever too cautious to allow such information to lie around. You'll find no such files there, and their representative at Gringotts is not one known to anyone outside of the bank and thus cannot be contacted. No responses are filed to any messages left with Gringotts for the Potter estates."

"Then it is up to our skills..." began one Weasley Twin.

"And our knowledge..." the other finished.

"It is indeed gentlemen. I shall offer what assistance I can give you, and what advice I can offer." said Dumbledore; "The first is that you agree something of an inner circle, the most crucial, most powerful of you who can speak on behalf of you all."

He already had a fair idea who that would be. Hermione Granger the clever, Daphne Greengrass the cunning, Neville Longbottom the dependable, the brothers Weasley, that is the twins, purveyors of chaos. Maybe even the sons of Lady Astoria, maybe Susan Bones. They were all useful and respected, and despite their protestations and his own, some were not exactly poor leaders. They were useful knights, bishops and castles with which to flush out their own queen. Astoria's twins however... while not quite queens in their own right, yet, they were powerful pieces indeed if nurtured right.

Dumbledore turned over a card in his hand. One side was a joker, the other was a crest, formed around a blood-red eagle spreading its wings. A reference to one of the more unsavoury habits of the Potter family, and a memento of their ruthlessness. It was an interesting experiment, if his theory was right about Astoria's twins. Nature and nurture. Personally, the old headmaster thought it was a combination of both.

He was unaware of a pair of tactical binoculars up in the rafters switching views between him, a few members of the group and the Greengrass-Malfoy twins before being lowered and their bearer retreating as the meeting broke up.

' _Interesting, very interesting indeed._ ' Harry thought to himself as he packed up his gear and fled through a series of secret passages which would allow him to exit the wards defending Hogwarts, to a location from which he could disapparate.

* * *

 **December 2009, Ravenscroft Manor, Kent.**

The long-expected return of Harry was greeted with the roar of a pair of powerful jet engines, the thud of fifteen tons of metal and fuel hitting the two-mile dead-straight driveway of the house. Jock McCabe watched as the Phantom disengaged from the wire and taxied around the RUBB and pulled in, shutting down once inside the structure. Harry soon climbed out of the cockpit and left the fabric structure, still wearing his flying suit, as the floor began to sink down, taking the aircraft into an underground hangar.

"Gen?" asked Jock as Harry walked over to the open-top Land Rover.

"Gen's good. The 'Fellowship' is from many walks of society, cliques and castes." Harry replied shortly; "I operated the RF-4E out of Aberdeen and got a good series of photo-reconnaissance runs on Hogwarts for us to build a 3D image of the castle and fill out the interior off my father's map."

"Something's bothering you." Jock noted as they reached the open-top Land Rover that was being used as an estate runabout, and had their colleagues perched on it.

Harry hoisted his briefcase onto the bonnet.

"Listen in!" he barked at the others who quickly made their way over. He opened up the briefcase to reveal a laptop, as well as a number of glossy photographs of the Greengrass-Malfoy twins. "What do you reckon the chances of these two being related to me are?"

Their analyst, Amy, spent about twenty seconds looking at them before delivering her verdict.

"Without precision equipment to analyse these, I'd say ninety-percent chance. Bone structure matches, eyes match. Similarities in hair." she commented.

"The question is, did you sleep with their mother?" asked Jock with a roll of his eyes.

"Once." Harry replied. "Well, several times on one occasion. And before you ask, I found out that they're in Fourth Year, so should have been born during the '95-'96 academic year, which makes it a possibility."

"Was that the one whose husband you bumped off?" asked Bill, frowning slightly in concentration.

"Yeah, security risk and he was basically forcing a marriage on the girl." Harry shrugged; "Astoria Greengrass was actually my partner and co-conspirator in his assassination. She got the Malfoy name, and with it land and money, while not having to suffer Draco Malfoy who suffered a series of terrible accidents."

"Well, looks like you've got a couple of offspring." a vindictive smirk appeared on Amy's face; "And let me be the first to congratulate you and remind you that we're _never_ going to let you forget this."

"I hate you all." Harry growled as they all burst out laughing. Apart from Jock who couldn't resist the opportunity for a snide remark.

"Given the number of times you've slept with Harry, I'm surprised there aren't more Potters running about." Jock gave Amy a _look_.

"Unlike Lady Malfoy, I have the good common sense to use contraceptives." Amy replied with an angelic smile. "For now."

Harry just reached for his cigar case. It was times like these that he was glad that in 1992, he'd taken over the position of majority shareholder in Robert Lewis and James J. Fox, cigar merchants, merging them into JJ Fox Ltd of St. James. He never found himself without a supply of cigars to hand.

"Okay, enough." he stated quietly, raising a hand to silence them; "We are to assume that operations will commence involving the Ministry of Magic. We need staging bases. Jock, find me a location within three miles of Great Scotland Yard, which is on top of the Ministry. I want it sufficiently large to operate heavy-lift helicopters from. Best infrastructure possible."

"On it boss." agreed Jock.

"Amy, I've already acquired Admiralty House and Admiralty Arch, they're less than a mile from the Ministry. I need you to take Nick and Jack, go and recce the locations and work out how many men we could move through there if force were required to be utilised against the Ministry." Harry ordered; "Bill, get back to Credenhill and rummage through the files, shortlist those you think could be brought in on Secret M, and when done, send it to me to review."

"Aye, mind if I borrow a plane?" Bill replied, inclining his head towards the two-seat Sea Fury sat nearby.

"Not at all. I can probably fly you over to Credenhill, I need to see Page, check he's doing his job of balancing paperwork while I'm off-base." Harry smirked before turning away and sitting down, staring at the sunset, Jock perching on the bonnet of the Land Rover next to him. "Go and get some food, we'll go our separate ways in an hour or two."

He did have his own duties too. The SAS, SBS and SRR men, and the SRR women operating under his command were the envy of the world's elite unconventional warfare community. Harry also had a shadier lot on his side. What he nicknamed in communications 'the East India Trading Company' were a group of loosely affiliated ex-services private military companies. The start-up capital for these companies came from his pockets, a small percentage of their profits returned to him, and he smoothed over a lot of bureaucracy for them. It allowed Harry to also have access to their skills and manpower when he needed to keep state forces out of a situation.

The training he subjected those under his command to was pretty harsh, every operational member of an operational patrol had to be rated 'excellent' in two trades. That meant if the patrol marksman was taken out, and they weren't doomed if the medic was killed because there would be a backup. Harry also insisted on daily use of the kill house and rotating squadrons through their training grounds at Pontrilas.

One thing Harry needed to flush out and crack down on were leaks from the SAS itself. A bit too much beer, or a brag in a quiet corner and classified information flooded the internet. He was perfectly happy with some leaking, after all the terrifying reputation of the SAS came from their operational history.

However, even if he had to send some of his shadier men after the tank-chasing lawyers, he was going to have the investigations into his men shut down and the phantom of trial by hysteria banished. If one of his men did commit a war crime, it was something that Harry would handle himself. It was a man's duty to shoot his own dog if it went rabid. Absolute discipline was necessary when you led a band of somewhat renegade veteran soldiers. That said, it didn't mean that there weren't times when he'd been tempted. Majar-al-Kabir, where he and a team of about a dozen SAS men backed by the Parachute Regiment had suffered significant injuries trying to extract six Royal Military Police in the early days of the Iraq War. He had counselled Lamb to call in Fast Air and raze the town to the ground like they did during Barras, and salt the earth.

"Deep thoughts?" asked Jock as the others headed off to go and do their jobs.

"Mmm. I've been concentrating too much on fighting wars. I need to turn my eyes back to Hereford and the men." Harry sighed, explaining his thoughts; "I don't know if you've heard about the law firm that's almost spamming the MoD with cases against serving soldiers. It's gutting the morale of the soldiery and even the UKSF men are becoming hesitant to take action without some kind of reassurance that they won't get locked up for a few centuries for kicking someone's door in."

"How could I not hear about it?" growled Jock; "It's spread across the fucking Guardian. Someone needs to shut them up before they crush the spine of the armed forces."

"It's something I'll be working on Jock." Harry sighed; "Something I probably should have nipped in the bud years ago."

"Years ago you were in the shit as much as the rest of us, just one more poor bastard trying to keep his head from being blown off by some cunt with a Kalashnikov." Jock snorted in contempt; "I heard a quote by one of the tank-chasers. It essentially went that Britain was the most democratic nation because the taxpayer, through the government, was paying him money to attack our armed forces."

"You know, if I had the opportunity to go back in time, I think I'd go back to the 1890s, join the Royal Navy and stop Britain becoming an, at best, second rate country." mused Harry; "Look where we are, our allies are the ever-renegade Israel, the Saudis who are undoubtedly funding extremist Islamist organizations, the Turks who go with the highest bidder, the Americans with their oil obsessions and jumping at shadows in the night."

"God we're fucked." Jock moaned.

"Aye, I'd say Britain's been fucked since the Washington Naval Treaty in 1920, or maybe even further back, when the concept of the big gun battleship was first proposed." Harry agreed; "It doesn't matter now though. We can but try our best to claw a foothold where we are, rather than falling even further."

"So, what to do?" asked Jock.

"First step, the orders I gave. Second step, I've already sent out instructions to men in my employ to rebuild RAF Madley as an operational airfield with capability for Special Forces operations." Harry explained evenly. "I think I may also see about sowing the seeds of chaos in Whitehall. I also need to expand UKSF transport capability significantly."

"We need more Hercs, too many are on duty with other units, or off duty undergoing maintenance and repair." Jock grimaced.

"I can get us twenty H-model C-130s." replied Harry; "Not quite as new or good as the Js, but they're undergoing a big rebuild to give them extra hours and more modern equipment, and more than double the assignment of Hercules to the UKSF and up the RAF's total from thirty-eight to fifty-eight airframes."

"That'll be a very useful, and major, increase in our capabilities. No more waiting for an aircraft to be available." Jock noted; "It won't change the fact that the loadie is the most hated of all breeds of airmen."

"Heh, if only we had access to genuine loadies. The RAF's manpower is fucked, I'm using my own men for this." Harry shook his head; "So it's good either way. We don't have to suffer the militant wing of British Airways, but we still get the Hercules."

"We also need more equipment on the ground." commented Jock bluntly; "We need heavy machine-guns, we need more gimpys, we need Charlie-Gs, we need mortars, we need vehicles."

"I can get the former pretty quickly, as long as people don't mind using some Yank M60s and Spandaus, I've already tried getting more MAGs, and the factory is churning them out at maximum rate for other countries." Harry shrugged; "And before you ask, BAE have already stopped producing the L7, fullstop. As for mortars, I've got about a hundred of the American M252s, which are a license-built version of our L16s. I can dig out a few hundred Carl Gustavs. As for vehicles, I can get hold of more transports for use back here, but for war zones they'd be no use."

"That'll be a start. There's equipment back here that would be of use in war zones, if we can replace it with non-crucial gear, then we can actually utilise it." Jock agreed; "We just need to work out how to get a shitload of ordnance safely to Hereford."

Harry just smirked, looking around him.

"Funny you should say that..." Harry commented, looking at the ploughed fields around them, planted with winter barley. "You remember when we were all convinced that when I was asked to hand over command of the SAS that I was going to be retired..?"

"Aye?"


	2. Chapter 2

**Late October 2008, Ravenscroft Manor, Kent, England**

Victor Dubose proceeded through one of England's great houses at a smart pace, polished shoes clicking smartly on the ancient floorboards, ones that had been trodden by the feet of powerful men for easily six-hundred years. Walking down from the attic room he occupied, one he occupied by choice as he liked the remoteness and the views from the high window out onto the grounds, he adjusted his black tie and checked the buttons on his coat of tails.

His employer, the Earl of Ravenscroft, was not picky about appearance. A soldier by profession and by nearly twenty years of blood and toil, the Earl generally disliked having to wear suits and had managed to avoid doing so for over a decade. However, as a former manager of the Savoy Hotel prior to 'retiring' to the quiet post of estate manager and butler to His Lordship, Victor Dubose had certain standards that he kept to. That didn't mean that, despite his long absence from the army, that he didn't have a revolver tucked under his jacket. Working for such an employer as his meant that certain precautions had to be taken.

Arriving outside the first level of the basement of the residential wing of the manor, he made his way to one of the doors, leading to a fifty-yard firing range, surrounded with armoured walls capable of absorbing the impact of the fire from an thirty-millimetre autocannon. Rapping smartly on the door, Victor heard a brief halt in the rapid gunfire on the other side and let himself in.

It as a little unusual to hear gunfire as His Lordship had recently ploughed a great deal of effort into his magical skills, researching arcane battle magic, runes and enchantments, combat spells and magical duelling. Apparently though he'd gone back to the usual practice of burning through bullets.

Turning to face him, clad in the same desert camouflage clothes he'd practically lived in for nine years, a man of about thirty-five years old, with a shock of black hair and a jagged scar, albeit somewhat faded, down his sideburn to his jaw on his right cheek, the result of a horrific tear from a serrated bayonet in the Gulf. Harry grinned, dropping a magazine from his Colt M1911 pistol and loaded another in, racking the slide.

"You are aware that there is an R on the end of your surname, my Lord Potter?" asked Victor dryly after looking down the range to the canvas stretched across it and the patterns of bullet holes.

"Very droll." Harry rolled his eyes, swinging back around to the canvas and firing again until the pistol ran dry; "Satisfied."

"Greatly. However I'm certain you didn't summon me down here to demonstrate your, admittedly superb, skill with a pistol?" the butler asked.

"Problem is, I'm on enforced leave, apparently something to do with my not having taken more than a day off work each year since '01. And I've been told to hand over command of 22 SAS to someone else, which makes me suspect I'm going to be asked to take retirement." Harry stated, switching on the extractor fans to pull out the expended cordite gas; "I'm bored, because apart from sorting out my replacement for command of the SAS, I spend a few hours flying my Phantom and occasionally I practice my marksmanship, but not much else apart from spellwork, which can get tiring after a few hours. I guessed that, given you pretty much run the estate that you'd have some idea of something for me to do?"

"You don't usually take a great interest in the running of the estate..." commented Victor.

"Didn't honestly expect to survive my military career." Harry admitted; "I don't actually know a great deal about the estate except the quickest route from my bedroom to the quick reaction hangar and the jet I keep there for emergencies."

"Very well, may we adjourn to your study. There are more than a few things that could do with your input." Victor stated; "A large quantity of the estate has gone unused for many years."

* * *

 **Late October 2008, Master's Study, Ravenscroft Manor, Kent, England**

"In the twenty years you've had me employed here, you've essentially given me free rein which is very welcome." said Victor, sitting down at Harry's desk as the retired colonel poured two glasses of whisky, placing one in front of him; "There have, however, been a number of things which could not happen without your input, or I simply don't have the manpower."

"Why didn't you say?" Harry asked.

"Your work, I felt, held greater importance. You were rarely in, and when you were, you locked yourself up in the operations room with your colleagues plotting how to keep Britain safe. I did not wish to interrupt that." Victor said tactfully, enjoying his lordship's good taste in alcohol.

"I honestly should have given you more time." replied Harry, running a hand through his hair.

"The past is the past." Victor closed the subject.

"Okay, inform me of what I've got." Harry ordered, sitting down.

"You have a fairly substantial estate. There is a river flowing out into the Medway which supplies us with water as you well know, it provides water for the moat, and at some point you sailed a destroyer up it and moored it to the house." Victor deadpanned.

"The most convenient place to put it." Harry claimed.

"Very well. The river flows down into the moat, and out of the far side of the moat. There's a series of watermills on it, they're usable for milling grain but at the moment the shafts of the mill-wheels are attached to electricity generators providing most of the power needed for the estate." explained Victor thoughtfully; "The wildlife there is quite plentiful. We have our own resident mute swans, some European freshwater otters while ducks and geese come and go. Fish include Atlantic Salmon and Brown Trout. The southern and eastern edges of the estate are heavily wooded, mainly oak and chestnut. You'll find a significant amount of deer, rabbit and wild boar. We cull them occasionally and freeze the meat for special occasions."

"Remind me to find some excuse to throw a big party." Harry commented.

"Indeed, it would be my pleasure. Due to both magical and non-magical methods, these groups of animals are not under threat so they are bountiful in number." stated Victor; "Now, we come to a problem that I was going to approach you on. This manor, once a castle as you know, was built in swampland to control the Dover to London roads, the London to Canterbury roads and the Dover to Rochester roads.

"A fairly good strategic position." Harry agreed.

"The problem is that, though the swamp was drained, we have some issues with the water table. During the eighteen-sixties a series of steam engines and water tanks were used to lower the water table, feeding off the water and collecting it in enchanted expanded tanks where it was purified for domestic use."

"What became of the pumps and the stored water?" asked Harry.

"They're still there, but the engines are mothballed. There are twenty boilers for the ten beam engines powering pumps would have to be opened up, the metal tubes inside inspected by a professional, possibly removed and replaced. It's something that I was intending on broaching with you this year." Victor admitted; "The whole thing is like the Crossness Pumping Station, very ornate inside as one would expect. We used what was left in the tanks back in '03 and the years after when we were under drought condition."

"When you've got time, get them working, I'd be interested to see." Harry ordered.

"I shall sir. The tanks are ten cubic feet, ten by ten by ten, but expanded permanently with magic at a ratio of three-hundred and twenty to one, so each tank, and there are ten, can hold two-million Imperial Gallons of water." Victor continued explaining; "It would be greatly useful to have the beam engines and their pumps in use once more before the water table builds up to critical level."

"We'd need some fairly industrial amounts of coal..." said Harry thoughtfully.

"Bring it in by rail. The railway from Dover Priory to Canterbury, Chatham, Rochester and London Victoria has a branch to the estate from near a station called Sole Street." Victor replied; "Now, if we can move on to what I would advise you to do?"

"Shoot." Harry said.

"We really shouldn't let you be around so many Americans." Victor muttered; "Yes, what we need to do fairly soon is to start up the steam boilers below the manor. We turn the water that has built up in the tanks into steam and the steam goes to a series of powerful industrial stationary steam engines, via turbines. The steam engines power their own turbines. Let's touch on employees for a moment."

"I don't honestly know who we've got..." Harry commented after a few seconds.

"Most of us are ex-forces." replied Victor; "About two dozen aviation engineers look after both the aircraft and the cars. A dozen cooks, three weapons technicians and a dozen old soldiers who simply look after the estate, undertaking the culls and occasionally cutting down a tree. There's also about a dozen tankies who look after your collection of old armour. We need to employ further people, our own technicians to maintain, restore and certify the steam equipment."

"Can the estate's finances afford it?" asked Harry.

"The estate has a finance account that has such a surplus, constantly being reinvested that a few years ago I expanded it northwest by about two miles and acquired a small village which had about a dozen residents. Built in about 1960, it's a nasty little place, dinky toy town. I didn't like it and have been intending for some time to get rid of it." Victor replied; "As such I've got planning permission to do so."

"Maybe we should get some of the armour out." Harry commented thoughtfully; "Send a memo to the tankies to get a couple of the Petard-equipped Churchills out and we'll clear that village."

"Very well sir. I believe that should keep you occupied for a few days. I shall look at employing the right people to get the boilers and stationary engines working. We already have a sufficient supply of coal." Victor agreed. "Do you wish to have a look at the industrial side of the estate?"

"I ought to." Harry nodded.

"Very well, if you'd follow me."

Walking down below ground level, leaving the varnished wood-clad walls of the manor, entering sandstone corridors, Harry passed the door that passed beneath the moat to the outer cellars, including the garage, tank park and the huge underground hangar with the lift up to the Rubb outside, where his aircraft were kept in good shape, passing the door to the undercroft with his Threat Planning Centre, and continuing down the corridor where he'd never ventured before.

Victor led him beneath the moat, out to one corner of the underground complex, producing a ring of keys as they halted where the corridor ran out and a studded wooden door blocked their path. Quickly picking out a key, he unlocked the door and swung it open. The difference between the honey-coloured and unadorned sandstone was marked. Cast iron pillars painted in bright colours, reds, blues, greens and golds, it was as if Augustus Pugin himself had been let loose with nary a thought to cost.

And there, sat in pairs in this temple to fire and water were the engines, twenty monstrous arcs formed of boilers clad in glazed fire bricks, and ten cylinders, with rods, wheels, cranks and beams forming the engines themselves.

"Sir, these are the engines powering the pumps which should refill the tanks fairly swiftly." Victor announced, his voice echoing off the hard surfaces; "One boiler per pump, with a second for redundancy should the first fail, the same for the pumps. These would take about a day at full power to fill the water tanks."

"And then it's used by the estate or pumped through turbines to further steam engines exclusively for use for power?" Harry asked.

"Essentially yes. The turbines are simply en-route to the power engines. Those engines use it to produce motion for generators which generate electricity." Victor stated; "Behind the iron doors in the walls behind each boiler is a chute to the coal bunkers, and they're sufficiently full that they wouldn't need refilling for some time. There are three engine rooms like this, though each serves a different purpose, this one pumps from the springs into the tanks, the second from the tanks to the third which generates electricity."

"And we can always hire a diesel to ship in more coal." Harry commented. "I'll call for Manxman to do a fast run to get a load of coal, she can easily carry a hundred-and-twenty five tons on her old mine deck."

"Why not simply use one of our own locomotives?" asked Victor, receiving a blank look in return; "Do you ever read the memos I send you?"

"No. Too busy sending them to somebody who has time to read them." responded Harry.

"I always wondered why they ended up on my desk a few hours after I sent them." sighed the butler; "Never mind, it isn't important right now. I'll fax you the location of that village that I assimilated into the estate, go and destroy it. I'll send in a clear-up team after you've knocked it down."

"My pleasure."

* * *

Harry grinned from the driving position of one of the Churchills as his loader slammed a 75mm shell into the breech with a loud, metallic clank. Stuffing the right control lever forward and drew the left one back, he spun the tank ninety degrees around as they exited up the ramp at the side of the manor.

Forming up alongside him were a pair of Churchill AVREs, accompanying his Churchill Crocodile, equipped with a powerful flame projector and a trailer full of what was basically napalm. Their objective was a fairly modern village built in the aftermath of WWII on the very edge of the estate, which Victor wanted destroyed. Harry was perfectly happy to agree to it as Victor had acquired the land on which the village sat and more beyond.

" _Fifteen minutes at current speed._ " called the commander from the turret of the AVRE.

"Roger." Harry replied.

Twenty minutes was an awfully long time in the noise, limited-visibility environment of a tank's hull, with the vehicle rocking across what could only be described as 'agricultural' terrain. However, at about a mile-and-a-half, the Crocodile's 75mm gun belched smoke and fire. One of the houses visible to Harry suddenly streamed fire from shattered windows and one wall collapsed outwards.

"Shoot!"

 _Crump!_ _Clank._

Another shell fired and the cartridge ejected out the back of the gun. The village was five minutes advance from their position, and Harry intended to take advantage of the fact that neither of the AVREs could employ their mortars yet.

" _Traverse, target zero-one-one degrees._ " came the commander's voice over the intercom; " _Shoot!_ "

 _Crump! Clank._

And the Ordnance QF 75mm fifteen-pounder could let off a shell every six seconds, every ten adjusting for re-aiming, which was good enough with eight-three rounds remaining. Pumping shells downrange into a target-rich environment, the Crocodile set about the small village, and found to Harry's disgust that the shells weren't as effective as he'd hoped. Despite being high-explosive, they were penetrating through walls without detonating.

" _Cease fire._ " came the call from the commander.

Then moving up, from the hull of the tank, a stream of hellfire engulfed the house, the jet of burning petroleum from the flame projector swiftly engulfing the building. Another house nearly erupted as one tank simply slammed into it, emerging on the other side and stopping with a sudden jerk to dislodge the debris.

* * *

 **Late October 2008, Butler's Study, Ravenscroft Manor, Kent, England**

Victor Dubose looked up as his boss poked his head around the door, looking awfully pleased with himself. Well, truly he looked utterly without emotion, as usual, but with the slightest hints of a smirk. That was the closest he got to strutting and preening.

"I finished off the job." he commented.

"I'm aware." Victor rolled his eyes; "A tank assault and how many air strikes?"

"One with three Phantoms, one carrying napalm, a second with general purpose bombs and a third finishing it off with rockets and shells." Harry replied. "It's good practice, plus I disposed of some ordnance that was near its use-by-date."

"I had to convince the police that there was no need for an investigation, that it was an MoD matter. Luckily the repeated explosions, the hundred-foot high sheets of flame, the gunfire and the pall of smoke convinced them." Victor sighed in exasperation; "Never mind, I'll send out some trucks and a combat engineering tractor to clear whatever is left up."

"Anything else needing doing?" asked Harry.

"Wait until tomorrow. I've asked the insurance company to send a boiler inspector." Victor waved him off.

"Whatever in expenses you're paying the inspector himself, add fifty percent to it." Harry ordered; "He'll keep his mouth shut about anything else he sees around here."

"Indeed, beyond the twenty steam boilers for the beam engines, I'm having him inspect ten Fowler Z7s." commented Victor.

"What?" frowned Harry, trying to think where he recognised the name from.

"Fowler built steam locomotives for the road. Those ones are particularly powerful and have been modified by your grandfather, they'll plough or seed at a good ten miles an hour." explained Victor; "It's still autumn. We get a crop of winter wheat down, then once that's planted and growing, set about putting a crop of barley down in the spring, harvest the wheat during the summer, and by then we'll have more capability for planting. We can plant barley during the spring, oats during summer, winter wheat and winter barley during the autumn...

"Besides barley can be used for beer." Harry agreed cheerfully. "Make a note to research the subject of beer brewing."

"Naturally sir." Victor rolled his eyes once again.

"Then again, why not just use a tractor?" asked Harry.

"Given the abundance of coal you intend to bring in, plus the cost of a new tractor being something around the same price as a Spitfire under restoration." Victor explained; "The costs don't add up, and I don't like diesels. And before you suggest it, not everything can be solved using a tank."

Harry made a rude gesture at him.

"One other thing, I assume you've come across, during your extensive military career, of the rumours of a strategic steam reserve?" commented Victor.

"What, a load of old steam engines packed away in a secret locations in case of a nuclear strike taking out anything with a computer chip?" replied Harry.

"The rumours are not completely false, but such a reserve is not held by the government, but this estate. It was usable until about nineteen-seventy. Ever since, the locomotives have lain _in ordinary_ , in a multiple-track tunnel storage under stasis enchantments which I need you to break so we can drag an engine out for running coal to the estate."

"Tomorrow, you and I are going to go out and have a look at this stuff." Harry frowned; "I had no idea we had all this."

"Read your memos." Victor rolled his eyes, a twitch that had started to happen more often.

"If the stasis has held the locomotives in good condition, I want you to get something to tow them out of storage and some experts to look them over." Harry ordered; "Like the boiler inspector, whatever their price, add fifty percent to it and pay a lump sum upfront."

"You do realise that we're opening the chest containing the Holy Grail for steam enthusiasts? I looked down there a few months ago and counted up the engines as about four hundred, maybe a quarter of them fast, powerful express locomotives." said Victor.

"Hence the bribe, so that they won't mind signing a non-disclosure agreement." smirked Harry.

"Very well. In the meantime I shall start planning crops and where to put them, plus the acquisition of the seeds. When we have engines working, the first stage will be ploughing, then seeding." Victor decided; "Once that is done, we need to do a certain amount of coppicing, and indeed the total removal of a significant number of trees."

"Oh?" Harry asked.

"If you go through the groundskeeper's records through to the beginning of the management of this estate, the woodlands that are part of it have long been well-managed, however, they the labour-intensive job of cutting hasn't been done." said Victor; "Rather the less labour-intensive work of planting new ones has been done, as I've taken it as something of a hobby. A good number of trees need coppicing, the wood can be towed to the water sawmill and cut, we need some beams for minor renovations in the manor amongst other things."

"I'll see about getting in some coal to get things going." Harry agreed.

"And one more thing sir." Victor said before he departed; "There is the matter of... inheritance."

"Should I die without a child, there are directives in place to form an estate trust to care for it." Harry frowned; "You'll still have a place here, being one of the few people I trust. I knew that there was a risk of my being killed in combat, so I have set things up."

"I'm aware you've had a few dalliances, but would be more conducive to the perpetuation of the estate should you marry-" began Victor.

"I understand." Harry said levelly, raising a hand to halt his speech; "But there is only one woman I intend to marry, and I have no intention of rushing it."

"Sir."

* * *

 **Late October 2008, Master's Study, Ravenscroft Manor, Kent, England**

Harry looked up for a moment from a rather interesting book on the industrial revolution as his study phone's speaker buzzed for a moment.

" _Miss Granger coming up to see you sir._ " Victor's voice came over the speaker.

"Thanks." Harry acknowledged it, before raking through his recycling bin until he found something he'd thrown out of his last military meeting, left behind by one of his NCOs. A little, slightly twisted prank.

Then the door burst open.

"You've retired!?" it was a combination of exclamation of disbelief, question and exclamation of great annoyance.

Harry looked up from the smutty magazine he'd just slipped into the book he was reading before she'd entered and eyed one of his oldest and most loyal friends, Hermione Granger. She'd matured well and lost much of her bookish air. A bit more given to the ironic and the cynical after just over a decade in the Secret Intelligence Service and the Security Service.

"Good morning Hermione, how are you?" he asked, one eyebrow twitching upwards.

"Hello Harry, and I'm fine." Hermione replied, rolling her eyes at his blatant deflection; "How come I never heard about your retirement?"

"You should be pleased, I've suddenly come over all appreciative of your nagging about studying." Harry gestured with the book towards her, completely ignoring the fact that he'd vanished from school in June 1990.

"What is it?" Hermione's curiosity overcame her knowing that he was just trying to distract her.

Harry turned the book around.

"Men!" huffed Hermione upon seeing the scantily clad occupants of the magazine inside the book.

"No, to be honest I stuffed that in there when I heard you were coming up." Harry chuckled, chucking the magazine in the general direction of the fireplace; "Opportunities to wind you up is all the entertainment I get around here these days."

"Anyway, what happened with you and the army? Nobody told me you were retiring, not invitation to a retirement party, no nothing!" Hermione settled down to interrogate him.

"The retirement was unexpected, and the party at Credenhill resulted in three crashed Land Rovers, five torched pianos, several gallons of various strong alcohols being consumed, several broken limbs, one knife fight over a bag of peanuts and one window broken by someone being thrown through it." Harry replied. "Once I'd recovered from the alcohol poisoning, I decided to set about civvy life quiet-like so that when my Whitehall finally decides to formalise my retirement, I've got something to do."

"Of course, and what have you decided to do?" asked Hermione.

"A few things, mainly running this estate." Harry replied cryptically; "And on that subject, have I shown you the great library before?"

He'd succeeded in distracting her completely.

* * *

 **Late October 2008, the Great Library, Ravenscroft Manor, Kent, England**

Harry was drawn from a discussion with Hermione on the latest intelligence coming out of the magical world and how the Security Service intended to contain it, when Victor walked in.

"My apologies sir, several things have come up. The first is that at current calculations, with sixty thousand acres of land to be farmed, estimated yield of a winter barley crop is three million, six-hundred thousand bushels of barley, with an approximate weight of seventy-seven thousand Imperial Tons, approximate market value of fifteen to eighteen million pounds." Victor informed Harry. "Naturally, such a large quantity of land is nearly impossible to farm with such small quantities of equipment and manpower. However I expect we could make fully a tenth of that in the first harvest. Then we'll have to see about what to do in the future."

"Excellent." Harry grinned; "That's a fair bit, though selling it could be problematic due to all the rules and regulations..."

"Turn it into beer. Ten percent would be enough for about a hundred-and-fifty thousand barrels of strong ale, which is over four-hundred and fifty thousand gallons." his butler replied unconcerned. "I've already planned planting hops closer to the manor, as we need two-hundred and sixty Imperial Tons of those for such beer."

"Exactly how drunk are you intending on getting?" asked Hermione.

"We need four-hundred thousand vines to produce enough hops. Each one takes up a square foot of land. What we need is a fair amount of labour." Victor continued. "The barley harvest with one combine harvester will take over two months, so I suggest we contract a number, I suggest about ten, which will reduce the harvest to a mere week, give or take a few days."

"Sounds reasonable, given the amount of land we have. What about ploughing it?" Harry asked.

"We have ploughs big enough to plough a fifty-foot wide channel in one go. The patch of land I've decided to farm is three miles long, and that length can be done in half an hour. Only that will have to be done three-hundred and twenty times." Victor explained patiently; "I have four locomotives for inspection, and working ten-hour days, can complete the job in four days, and when it comes to seeding, well, probably another week."

"The question is, do we know anyone who can drive a traction engine?" Harry poked a hole in the whole damn thing.

"As it happens, I have a few old friends who wouldn't mind coming down and helping out, in exchange of course, for travel costs, food and board." Victor said smoothly.

"Naturally."

"Otherwise, the only things I need to discuss are some labour jobs and if possible, some administrators to free me up to assist you further." continued Victor.

"Thirty-thousand pounds per annum minimum for any staff on my estate." Harry ordered; "Do as you see fit."

"I'm honoured with your trust sir." Victor murmured.

"I'd never have employed you if I didn't trust you." was Harry's reply, waving the old butler off.

"So, Harry, what's this about..?" asked a curious Hermione.

"If you'll excuse me sir, Miss Granger." Victor bowed to them both; "And sir, the boiler inspectors arrived two hours ago, I had the ten Fowlers towed out into the lesser entrance courtyard for their inspection. After lunch it would likely be a good idea for you and I to take a look at the locomotive works."

"Of course." Harry agreed.

* * *

 **Late October 2008, the Ravenscroft Estate, Kent, England**

"Sir, this is the senior inspector, Mister Archer." Victor introduced Harry to the senior contracted boiler inspector.

"Pleasure." Harry said brusquely; "What condition are these machines in?"

The five Fowler locomotives, four to work and one spare, each stood twenty-five feet long, fourteen feet tall and nearly ten feet wide. The great width was made with huge rear wheels which were a foot and a half wide, each, and the height was accented by large funnels which served to exhaust smoke and steam from the locomotives. They'd been modified with condensers and superheaters to increase the power by two-and-a-half times the original amount.

"We've drained them of inhibiting oil, they'll need a thorough flushing through with water, but otherwise, they seem to be in as good a condition as you'll get with a freshly restored locomotive." the engineer replied. "Obviously we haven't tested it under pressure for leaks, but visually, the engines appear to have been fully overhauled, maybe run once, then drained, inhibited and then packed away."

"Then you have my permission to go ahead and prepare pressure tests." Harry stated; "Victor, the first shipment of coal..?"

"Brought in from the Manxman at Chatham and parked around the back in your AEC Militant lorry." Victor replied; "I'll have some brought around."

He called a few orders into a radio he kept tucked into his belt as Harry vanished for a few minutes. When he returned, it was with a crude steel grate, and several logs, still dripping with petrol that he'd splashed onto them. A match thrown from a few feet away and the petrol caught, engulfing the logs. The blaze soon burnt out the oil, but had latched onto the dried logs.

At this point, Harry stood back and watched. The Militant pulled into the courtyard, and the bunkers of the traction engines were loaded from a coal scuttle. Then they added some of the coal to the burning logs, leaving it there long enough to burn well. Then hot coals and a bit of petrol from a jerry can were thrown into the firebox of the first locomotive. The traction engine was already full of water that had been pre-heated, so raising steam was a fairly fast process. The first engine was steaming by mid-afternoon, and by eveningtide, had been handed over to Victor's friends, who were soon driving it in circles around the courtyard.

Harry's last order of the day was that the inspectors be treated as honoured guests, well-fed and given good quarters. He left the men, who had decided to move onto the other engines that had thin fires warming them up. The smell of hot oil, steam and smoke wafted around the courtyard.

The smell that had driven an agricultural nation to the heights of industrial and military might.


	3. Chapter 3

**December 2009, Credenhill Barracks, RAF Credenhill, Hereford.**

Harry was working in his office. This was an unusual occurrence as he loathed the things associated with his office. Paperwork, the usual complaints from Whitehall about him not being able to be the answer to every problem, the usual demands from Downing Street to allow the government and central military command centres more control of his operations.

An odd one caught his eye, sealed with the arms of the Bishop of Hereford. He picked up a letter, slitting it open with the same movement that dropped a dagger from his sleeve before concealing the blade again. Hereford Cathedral offering a memorial monument for the fallen of the SAS. He was almost touched.

 _No. We work in the shadows, we want little recognition beyond what will help our aims. We want just to get on with our job. No pretensions to be heroic saviour-soldiers of Britain. A threat of a silent bullet, a threat of a blade in the dark._

He set it aside to write a polite refusal, and maybe to ask that just a memorial service for the fallen of the SAS be conducted, nothing more. A few moments later as he reached for a fountain pen, Harry was interrupted by a violent pounding on his door, followed by Jock bursting in.

"Boss, have you fucking seen this!" Jock barked, as he stormed in with a piece of paper.

"May I?" Harry asked, reaching out for it, as he saw a number of senior Warrant Officers and Sergeants lined up outside. He narrowed his eyes at the paper; "Interesting... very interesting indeed."

"Interesting... fucking interesting? It's a fucking list of pretty much every SAS man who blew away one of those cunts in Iraq, a list recommending fucking investigation and prosecution for shooting the shit out of the insurgents who we're still fighting out there!" roared Jock.

"Sit down Jock. Now!" Harry snapped, letting loose a touch of command and a touch of magic into his voice.

His closest comrade, mentor for twenty-five years and second-in-command sat down suddenly. Harry was usually a fairly easygoing type, but there was a reason he had survived twenty years of combat, of political fighting and military one-upmanship, and when the 'Voice of Command' was used, you fucking listened!

"To be honest, I was not aware of this, so firstly I'd like to find out where you got it." Harry said, returning to the same even tone.

"I've got men in the MoD who keep me up-to-date with the goings on in Whitehall." Jock explained, his shoulders still rising and falling as he struggled to suppress his fury.

"Do you think this is silver intel?" Harry asked. The quality of intelligence was graded by how genuine and how recent it was, the first ranks of grading being in colours, the top grades in metal.

"At least." growled Jock. "Gold I'd say as I took a few hours out to verify it myself."

Harry simply sat back in his chair and stared at the list, allowing his mind to run through ten-thousand ideas. That was an interesting comment. Jock was a not usually a hot-blooded type, like Harry, he was a stone-cold fighter. This was carefully calculated, premeditated anger.

"How can you be so fucking calm!" Jock snapped after a few moments of this; "You're pretty much at the top of this fucking list, as are the men you've commanded, and a good number of your own senior officers and NCOs."

On the other hand, Jock might actually be on the point of homicide.

"Because anger clouds judgement as easily as alcohol." responded Harry in the same even tone as he'd spoken in; "Tell me, have the men seen this. And if so, how many and who."

"I wasn't exactly quiet." Jock admitted; "I sort-of stormed into the NCOs mess and nailed a copy of it to the bar with a knife."

"Hence the deputation waiting outside." Harry commented wryly. "No matter, it serves its purpose. Gentlemen, you can come in."

The senior NCOs duly walked in, forming up two lines around half of the walls, facing Harry's desk. A good number of them hadn't been in there. Apart from Harry's wide desk, covered in bits of paper and a couple of sidearms being used as paperweights, there was a dismantled Rolls-Royce Griffon spread across shelves, the actual engine block was sat on a table, the twelve empty cylinder bores being used to hold bottles of strong spirits. It was also where Harry often slept, with a folding bed set up against a wall, and a hammock slung from RSJs, except Harry's personal pet cat, Lucifer, was curled up in it.

"Have the junior NCOs and ORs seen this?" Harry asked.

"Pretty much all of those who are on base and not on duty have, plus some of those on duty, sir." a Staff Sergeant replied.

"Their opinions?" continued Harry, his even, inscrutable tone continuing to reveal nothing of what he was thinking.

"They're very angry, but waiting to see what you, and by extension, we, are going to do sir." the same NCO replied; "You were with A Squadron in Basra back in '05 sir. A Squadron nearly mutinied and the rest back home were kitting up for moving out to Iraq or an assault on London. This time, the MoD aren't delaying us getting men out of durance vile, but trying to actively put us away."

"Would they mutiny?" Harry replied, turning to stare out of the window pensively.

"They're waiting to see what you, and by extension, we, are going to do, sir." repeated the Staff Sergeant.

Harry stood up, walking over to the window, picking up a smouldering cigar and relighting and taking a puff of tobacco it with a sigh of satisfaction.

"I heard you the first time." Harry rebuked; "What if I were to mutiny?"

"Mutiny's a strong word sir, one that comes with penalties-"

"You're a damned Staff Sergeant, not a yes-man, give me a damned answer!" Harry snapped, momentarily losing his cool as he swung round to stare a hole through the SNCO.

"They'd follow you in an instant sir." came the answer he was wanting.

"Spread the word. Men who are off-duty and not due to be on-duty or deployed in the next month are to get into civvies, that is suits and business-wear. Get what firearms are easily concealed. Also secure _our_ security. I don't know whether to trust the red-caps and snowdrops on the perimeter." Harry ordered; "Jock, get Bill in with his profiling work. I think we need to have a word with Downing Street. I'm going to move a squadron-sized force into Admiralty House and if necessary, take over the Cabinet, turn its members into puppets for our men."

"That's an action and a half." noted Jock.

Harry swung round to face his friend and comrade, a look of utter cold fury finally appearing on his face as he picked up the paper. This was the anger churning inside him finally appearing.

"This piece of a paper is in effect the betrayal of the British Armed Forces, sworn men of the Queen. An attack on the Army, an attack on the Queen. An act against the security of the nation, giving aid and comfort to our enemies. I have had enough of this, first we had that twat Blair, who oozed a slimy trail of false charm and smugness wherever he slid like some mutated humanoid slug. Now this one-eyed, one-brain celled idiot, winner of most punchable face 2009." Harry snarled; "I swore an oath to my queen, to my country. More than that, I swore an oath to myself. This goes against all common sense or morality. This paper is an attempt to constrain Her Majesty's Armed Forces, an act that will stir enemies of Britain to act. This is treason, this is treachery and _I will have it ended_. Gentlemen, you have your orders."

Soon the only one left in the room with Harry was Jock, as well as Lucifer, who jumped down from the hammock, tightrope-walked across a shelf and jumped down to sharpen his claws on Harry's armchair.

"An attack on government comes awfully close to treason." Jock warned.

"History rewards the bold." Harry dismissed him.

"History often punishes the bold." Jock countered.

"I'm not going to be the man who waited and watched." Harry replied with no trace of doubt or hesitation in his voice; "I've made many mistakes in my life, but this is not one of them. Maybe I should have done this earlier, but I had no casus belli. I cannot stand by now, or the next thing you'll know there'll be soldiers being arrested left right and centre for delivering the coup de grâce. How many times have you had to do so?"

"More than enough." Jock grimaced; "I can think of over a dozen occasions right back to when I joined 2 PARA in '77. One or two of them our own men or allies. A bullet to the heart for an enemy combatant, an overdose of morphine for one of our own."

"I'm on that list for war crimes including murder of two Basra civilians near the al-Jameat. I fucking shot those two bastards because one of them had a fucking Molotov cocktail lit in one hand and a grenade in the other, while the second I put down with a burst from the gimpy because he was pointing a damned AK at my car!" Harry said furiously; "If I take no action today, the morale of the forces will be compromised, as will recruiting for the forces. One action is the thin end of the wedge as well. The very core of Britain's statehood will be compromised if this is allowed to go ahead, because it will result in the self-destruction of Britain's military!"

Jock stilled for a moment, his mind racing, before offering quietly.

"Do you think that's what they want?"

"What?!" Harry froze.

"Defence is expensive. You take the morale out of the forces and add the spectre of prosecution for shooting an insurgent, then less people will be willing to join up." Jock theorised; "Slowly units lose strength, and to preserve them, you start merging them, cutting all the administration, the bands and what-not by half with each merger of two units. Then as Britain starts no longer having the capability to intervene overseas, you can continue to quietly draw down the armed forces. Destroy the last vestiges our blue water force projection, scrap our carriers and our Harriers. Scrap one and suddenly we don't need the other. Gut the Special Forces and you can then disband the units as a whole, sell off the bases as real estate, sell off the equipment, cut the personnel."

"It's something to find out." Harry agreed. "If you'll excuse me, I need to get Bill to appoint me a new cabinet to turn the current one into a bunch of puppets, then I need to take a quick flight to RAF Sculthorpe."

"Do you think this might be some kind of revenge for you arranging for the expenses leak?" Jock asked, and at Harry's surprised look continued; "We all know that Wick was working, if not on your payroll, at your suggestion and that he was tracked to one of your safe houses in West London."

"To quote Amy, 'given how regularly the government fucks the armed forces, I'm surprised we aren't all eight months pregnant'. I felt that one bad turn deserved another." Harry said with a hint of a smile; "Tell me Jock, if we were to have another replacement Labour PM, if the current one and all those in the line of succession were to suffer debilitating accidents, which MP would it be?"

"Skinner." Jock replied, and explained as Harry raised an eyebrow; "He's a stubborn and prickly twat, but not a complete and utter useless fuckwit, nor a vindictive cunt. Twenty-one years down't'mine, and since becoming an MP, and the only times twenty-one years as an MP that he's missed sessions in the Commons is when he gets thrown out for called a spade a fucking shovel. Unlike the rest, he actually seems to believe in his cause, not just the accumulation of personal power and wealth."

"I'm always wary of socialists though. Especially if they believe in their cause." Harry noted; "They're less predictable, controllable and manipulatable than the ones in it for themselves. I have it up to here with fanatics and their causes. To be brutally honest I loathe the whole lot. I would say I support absolute monarchy, but what happens if a shit monarch comes along? There's no good answer."

"And there's no such thing as an infallible man. Even Churchill had some shit moments." Jock agreed; "We can only do what we can. Isn't that why your family has murdered a king?"

"If you want to be exact, murdered three kings, arranged the deaths of two more and abandoned one to his death." Harry corrected his second-in-command; "That can be excused under the reasoning of self-preservation, preserving the nation from weak rule and because he had it coming."

Jock chuckled darkly. He always enjoyed Potter family history. Machiavellian before Machiavelli. He could see the Potters doing exactly that, and doing so without compunction. Once kings in their own right, feuding with the Gwertherion and Mathrafal dynasties over the petty kingdom of Powys until they paid fealty to William the Conqueror, betraying Harold Godwinson to his death.

"It's rather unfortunate that we can't arrange an accident or a sudden illness now." he noted.

"Amy suggested bubonic plague in the House of Commons a few days ago." Harry replied.

"A good head on her shoulders that girl." Jock admitted before grinning; "Though you probably know better than the rest of us."

"Mind it Jock, else you might be suffering from a sudden illness." Harry warned, idly watching Lucifer jump down from his hammock and scratch his claws on one of his spare pairs of boots.

Jock flinched horribly as he saw the little grey tabby sharpening his claws. He was terrified of that little monster, who jumped into Harry's lap and curled up as Harry himself sat back down in his chair, one hand idly scratching Lucifer behind the ears.

"You know, I originally thought you were just sleeping with her as the nearest attractive bit of tail and a middle finger to the rules and regulations on the subject of inter-rank relationships." Jock said thoughtfully; "Then I started seeing other things. The odd glance, the odd touch. Body language tells interesting things."

"Am I supposed to be making a weeping confession?" Harry asked.

"No, I don't think I need much more. How long have I known you now?" replied Jock.

"Twenty-five, maybe twenty-six years." Harry shrugged.

"I'd say I can read you fairly well now. Especially since I was your handler and guardian during your formative years." Jock said shrewdly; "Amy's rather more than just 'friends with benefits' to you."

"You want the damned truth?" Harry sighed rhetorically; "You're bloody right, as usual. You ever thought about getting out of this business?"

"Once or twice." Jock admitted; "It's been a long thirty-two years of service."

"You'd have every damn right to a quiet, comfortable retirement. Even if I've never thought of you out of uniform." Harry grinned; "You know my retirement was due about now, before the whole DSF debacle? Amy's Short Service Commission was also up. We were talking about the future. Life, family, all that."

"You're close." Jock concluded.

"Trust, reliance, comfort." shrugged Harry; "We sort-of just fell together."

"I'm truly glad you've found someone. What next though, our wars aren't done yet." Jock asked.

"I've set about establishing a Forward Operating Base for magical intervention, the MoD still had ownership of a requestioned site on the Black Isle, Redcastle. That's our FOB for Hogwarts and an obscure fortified safe house." Harry walked over to a map table; "London though... London, I need to trigger a COBR meeting in the Cabinet Office, rather than Downing Street. FOB for the operation is the Ripley Building of the Admiralty. Infiltration is through Horse Guards."

"Full spec-ops kick the door down and clear it room-by-room kind of assault?" queried Jock.

"If needs be." Harry agreed; "I have other plans that may either displace, or work in concert, with this one. For the moment, Plan A is an assault on the Cabinet, seizing its members as hostages and the implementation of a scheme to force them to be puppets for SAS men."

"You're working on the assumption that we make the first move." Jock commented.

"Should any of our men be detained, I'll confine the unit to barracks, and if a raid is made against barracks, I'll pull them back to Caereyr where we can work behind fifty-foot thick walls and big coastal-type artillery." Harry stated; "Should it come to that point, even with fast air, an assault by London against the fortress would be a bloody affair with no guarantee of taking it."

Jock nodded. The Potter family's largest (as far as he knew) seat was in the Cambrian Mountains, built like no other castle he'd ever seen, save perhaps Raynald de Châtillon's huge castle of Kerak or the Hospitaller's fortress of Hosn al-Akrad, known in modern times as Krak des Chevaliers.

Multiple concentric rectangular walls, none less than forty-five feet thick, pointed with hard stone and packed with mortar and rubble to absorb impacts. The walls had been augmented during the lordships of Harry's grandfather and great-grandfather with battleship-calibre guns and wide-bore howitzers, interspersed with fast-firing high-velocity naval rifles. Harry himself had augmented this with radar with a range of two-hundred miles and Rapier SAM batteries.

A combination of the most modern weapons systems as an aggressive defence, and old defences of great strength. Supersonic attack aircraft would be cut down by the Rapiers, armoured vehicles would have to follow a winding causeway to the sole entrance to the fortress, all the time under the fire of massive naval artillery. Helicopters disagreed with Starstreak MANPADs and infantry assaulting the castle would have to deal with rocky terrain, artillery and the SAS holed up inside.

"However, I do not foresee sleep happening much in the future. I need to plan for a rebellion unlike any since the Jacobites, and unlike them, I have every intention of being successful and retaining my head." Harry said dryly. "With a bit of luck, I'll not even have to start a small civil war. They've put my back against the wall, and if the only way out of the corner is to tear someone to shreds, I'll happily do so."

* * *

 _A/N:_

 _FFN appears to have added my chapter without changing the update date. So deleting chapter and adding it again with this A/N._

 _OC characters:_

 _SAS Warrant Officer Andrew 'Jock' McCabe. SAS NCO, enlisted 1980. Born in Glasgow in 1960, worked in a steel foundry 1976-1979 before enlisting. Fought in every conflict since. Was Harry's handler during Hogwarts mission September 1986 – June 1990. Second-in-command of Section Five. Large in stature, frequently uses machine-gun as an assault rifle._

 _SAS Staff Sergeant William 'Bill' FitzAlbert de Mornay, enlisted 1988. Fought with Section Five since 1990. Third son of a minor noble family. Born 1969, dropped out of university one year in due to spending too much time drinking, boat racing and womanising to bother with education. Expert hunter, specialising in tracking and marksmanship which allow him to track targets and engage them at long range._

 _SAS Staff Sergeant Jack Knight, enlisted 1985. Fought with Section Five since 1990. Born 1966, spent three years as a builder before enlisting, now specialises in reconnaissance of buildings and their demolition. Otherwise is a standard SF operator performing shock warfare tactics._

 _SAS Staff Sergeant Nicolas 'Nick' Zacarias, Filipino born 1963, enlisted 1980. Grand Master of Eskrima, martial arts specialist and team medic. Little bastard with a big knife. Otherwise is a standard SF operator performing shock warfare tactics._

 _SRR Major Amy Fitzrichard, estranged eldest daughter of an old family. Army Reservist Officer enlisted into the regulars 2003, recruited into SRR in 2006. Intelligence and reconnaissance analyst with secondary role as assault operator. Noted for, probably in contravention of several regulations, being in a steady relationship with Harry._


	4. Chapter 4

**December 2009, Credenhill Barracks, RAF Credenhill.**

The armoury of the special forces base at Credenhill was quickly cleared of non-essential munitions, from captured weapons to trophies including Saddam Hussein's personal collection of gold-plated rifles which the SAS had 'acquired' just over six years before as they assaulted every location that the dictator could have been hiding in.

Having removed trophies, obsolete and useless weapons, leaving no more than just-about sufficient weapons for a fighting retreat, and found ammunition to be severely depleted. Harry took note of it as they prepared the archives. Stripping out the records, bagging and tagging them and preparing them to be transported away. A significant amount of clearing of shrubbery done to allow clear fields of fire from various positions. Sangars were laid on the roofs of the buildings, machine-guns emplaced and armoured vehicles positioned at the gates.

Preparations for a fight were nigh-completed, maybe more of a deterrent than in serious intent to defend an indefensible site. One eye on proceedings, Harry was in his office, turning to regard the fax machine as it chuntered into life. He pulled out the printed message, scowled at it and screwed it up.

"Jock!" Harry called, sticking his head around the door to find his 2IC just down the corridor, checking sandbags around a window. "Whitehall has issued a demobilisation and disarmament order. 22 SAS, the Special Boat Service and the Special Reconnaissance Regiment, with associated units are to stand down and disarm. Make sure everyone's accounted for."

"Already done that half-an-hour ago. Only person not accounted for is Amy. Her phone's not on." Jock replied.

"I've got a number for her emergency backup phone." Harry stated, heading to his phone.

* * *

Elena and Amy Fitzrichard stared across the pub table at one another. Sisters they were, but close they weren't. Amy had spent her school years in and out of detention, regarding her teachers as patronizing idiots and their work as below her. Elena had been studious and driven to achieve targets. Amy drifted through school at her own pace, and then vanished into obscurity five years before, recruited through her work in the Territorial Army and the British Army Reserves.

"Why have I recently had a file appear on my desk at Maidstone Police Station with orders for an operation, arresting – amongst others – you?" asked Elena, trying not to notice that her sister's leather jacket was straining, revealing the butt of a loaded semi-automatic pistol in her waistband. "The reason being for war crimes."

"Does it matter?" Amy shrugged apathetically. "Isn't it your job to be clapping me in irons?"

"Probably, but there are a few technicalities which allow me to hold off on doing so." Elena replied; "Besides, I'm not going to have our first meeting together in years result in a fight."

"I wouldn't call it a fight. Immediate incapacitation maybe." sniped Amy.

"Can't you be serious for once. You upped and vanished four or five years ago now, and neither mum and dad or I have seen you or spoken to you in that time. Now I've managed to get hold of you, warning you that someone's out to get you, and I don't get the slightest explanation?!" snapped Elena. "What the hell have you been doing in that time, and how the hell has it resulted on your name in a file for arrest for war crimes?!"

Amy leaned back and considered for a few moments. Elena was risking a lot for her. Maybe some truth would help. Definitely not all the truth. 'Truth is so precious that she should be attended by a bodyguard of lies' according to Winston Churchill.

"My work has put me in war zones. What happened is irrelevant, only that in a flurry of politics, I've become collateral damage for someone's anti-military policy." Amy explained evenly; "Now my question. What prompted you to put yourself at risk by getting involved?"

"Do you think so little of me to believe I'm just a yes-woman?!" demanded Elena; "Even if you don't bother to recall, we're sisters. Or if you do recall, does blood mean so little to you?"

Amy was too cynical to let any emotion show on her face at her sister's amateur dramatics other than a half-raised eyebrow.

"Blood means a lot to me. Especially keeping it in my veins. Anything to compromise that has to be stopped." she snarked. "And usually the best method is to spill the other person's blood."

"If you're going to be sarcastic, does _familial relationship_ mean so little to you?" Elena gritted out between clenched teeth.

"Then would you take some sisterly advice?" asked Amy, waiting for a curt nod from her sister; "Forget you saw that file. Forget you met me today. Forget the whole thing and with a bit of luck, it'll be no more than a damp squib-"

Her phone rang.

"This better be important." Amy growled after flipping the thing open.

" _Very. Demob orders, disarmament demands. I've been tearing them up. Spotters have been seen recceing base._ " Harry's voice issued from the speaker curtly; " _I hope you're behind a set of nice thick walls._ "

"If only." Amy replied; "Give me half-an-hour and I'll be safe. With the keys to your Sea Fury and an hour on top of that and I can be on-base."

" _Ravenscroft and stay. We'll move there in force before taking a wander up the Thames._ " Harry replied.

"Will-do." Amy replied as Harry hung up. "Ellie, I really really strongly recommend you get yourself uninvolved from this situation."

They were sisters after all.

"I can't readily."

Her damned bloody-minded, stubborn, headstrong sister. Amy pulled a hip flask out of her pocket.

"Filled it this morning. Very strong brandy, fairly old. It's the good stuff, and though I wouldn't usually say chug it all down, maybe this once." sighed Amy, passing it across the table. "If you're too drunk to be coherent then you can't compromise me. It would be even better if you were drunk to the point of unconsciousness or hospitalisation."

"Who's Harry?" asked Elena, flipping the flask around to show the words _Drink and Despair – Harry_ to her sister.

"Never you mind." Amy rolled her eyes. "Just make sure that if anyone enquires about us meeting, you were too damned drunk to make the connection."

Waiting until her sister made some inroads on the brandy, Amy then departed, taking a shortcut out the back of the pub to her heavily-tuned XJS. Cursing the air blue as the car purred out of the car park, Amy pulled on a baseball cap and sunglasses, doubling back into a side street to observe as six armed police four-by-fours raced up outside the pub.

Amy realised they'd been followed.

Muttering a prayer to some nameless deity, she waited and watched, hoping that Elena, her little sister, bullheaded as she was, wouldn't do something rash. Unfortunately, whatever happened in the pub resulted in Elena being dragged out by two burly constables, one of whom had a broken nose. Her sister was noticeably swaying. Either concussion or drink. Gently easing the Jag into neutral, Amy let it roll backwards down the hill until she could flick it around and cruise down a series of backstreets,

Opening out onto the country roads, she reached down for a toggle switch, one she'd never bothered using before, and then floored it. Harry had built the XJS from a pile of bits lying around his garage, and almost built a new engine with it as a gift for her twenty-fifth birthday a few years ago. Almost always, she was happy purring up and down motorways, but she needed to shift.

The toggle switch changed the car dramatically, answering her plea for speed. The howl of two twin-scroll superchargers, the wail of the transmission, the bark of the exhaust with every change and the ripping calico roar of the quad-cam V12 itself, bored and stroked out to seven-and-a-half litres. Sensory overload for most people, but sweeping the wheel around, Amy hurled the car at the corners and then flattened her foot on the floor and felt the answer. Harry had taken the car on a dynamometer, and even without the reserve of nitrous in the boot, the car had broken the dyno just beyond nine-hundred horsepower. Now she felt the massive, wide tyres grip and grip, then with a flick the car came back into line and almost bucked as the horsepower hit the road.

Gritting her teeth and clenching her hands on the wheel, Amy concentrated on the familiar roads, concentrated on the fact that she was twenty minutes or less from safety.

* * *

 **December 2009, Ravenscroft Manor, Kent.**

The dining room was near silent, Amy sat, visibly fuming, in the chair at the bottom end of the table, Harry opposite her, subconsciously tapping out the first few bars from the theme of the film Zulu on the table with his fingernails. The others of Section Five, Jock, Nick, Bill and Jack were just watching and contemplating.

"We can't bloody-well do nothing!" Amy finally exploded.

"We have no intention of doing nothing. Doing nothing is not an option." Harry replied immediately.

"Though even a flight to a non-extradition country wouldn't be doing nothing." Nick added unhelpfully before falling silent as a fuming Amy pulled out a lethal-looking dagger and drove it into the table with one clenched fist.

"We can however, do nothing about your sister." Jock said, ever a cautious man; "Ignore her and go ahead with the attack on Whitehall, thereby bypassing any need to force the issue of your sister. Just have her released."

"Does she have enough information to compromise us?" asked Bill.

"I didn't give her much. I didn't actually say that I was directly involved in the military, only that I'd been in war zones." Amy replied grudgingly. "However I don't know how much she can work out from that. She always was good at reading between the lines and analysing things. As good as me."

That said something as Amy's job was, beyond kicking down doors, an intelligence analyst for them. She could interrogate, could see patterns in a person's routines, could see the tiniest details in poor-quality photo-reconnaissance images, and draw a set of accurate conclusions from minimal information.

"Luckily you're not in charge, so they can't pressure her to predict how you'd handle such a situation." Jack, ever-practical commented. "And Harry has a professional habit of being unpredictable."

Maybe half a minute of silence followed, as Amy jerked the knife out of the table and started agitatedly spinning the blade between her fingers, somehow avoiding that razor-sharp edge cutting her to the bone.

"I've decided we're going to break her out." Harry suddenly announced to general uproar, save from Amy, who sank into the depths of her chair in relief.

"Why?" Jock asked, staring at Harry; "What advantage is there to that than simply having her released once we do over Whitehall?"

"The latter isn't guaranteed to go well. Once in action, any plan can go to shit." Harry commented; "Secondly, the matter will not allow Amy to rest easy and have a clear mind for the fight. Thirdly, it'll be a nice diversion prior to the assault on Whitehall, a bit of chaos, preferably done with great volume and destruction so that we can pull off a silent infiltration in London. Fourthly, if she's as good as Amy says, then she could be a useful asset. Finally, Elena is family. Not all family has to share blood. Didn't we always say we were one-another's family?"

Silence. No argument, no contradiction. They were soldiers, they stuck by one-another, and they followed orders.

"I scrambled a Canberra from Brawdy the moment that I located where your sister had been taken." Harry said, looking directly into Amy's eyes; "I should be getting photo reconnaissance back within the hour. Then I'll work out a plan to get your sister out."

"I owe her this much. She took the risk that got her caught to try and help me." Amy admitted, her voice close to cracking; "What kind of sister would I be if I sat and did nothing. If I wouldn't help my own blood, could I still be any worth as a soldier?"

"That's not a question needing answering." Harry said wryly; "We're going to take action. But not for a few days yet, I'm going to arrange a series of distractions. Jock, you remember our work a decade ago in the Continent... gun and drug runners?"

"Aye, what of it?" asked Jock.

"Well, I could do with a repeat performance. I'm also going to run a train to Credenhill with munitions, take away men and the archives, and grab more men from Poole." Harry continued; "When I'm certain that we're furnished with enough suitably equipped men, then I'll make my move."

* * *

 _To those ranting about how this isn't even Harry Potter, it will be moving into the magical world. The first half-a-dozen chapters or so are merely setting the scene. You don't actually have to read it if you don't want to... Eljin1 made a good point. The monarchy will be involved, but so far Harry is keeping them out of it to prevent his plans being disrupted, and possibly forcing the hand of his opponents, who don't want a royal intervention, particularly the hard-line republicans (different meaning in UK to US, over here republicans are an anti-monarchist shower of bastards. Over in the US there is no monarchy to be anti.)_

 _I finish editing this on the 23rd of May, two months and a day after the Westminster atrocity. I woke up this morning to read of an act far more horrific perpetrated last night. An attack on young teenagers, unarmed civilians leaving a pop concert. I will simply say this:_

 _Britain knows about bombs, and it will take more bombs than these crackpot jihadis have to break Britain. We've been here before, got the t-shirt and all. Blitzkrieg burned most of our industrial cities and the Baedeker raids did for many of the locations of cultural heritage. A quote from Winston Churchill on the subject of 'Der F_ _ü_ _hrer'. A little out of date on the imperial front, but not entirely inaccurate._

" _He hopes by killing large numbers of civilians and women and children that he will terrorise and cow the people of this mighty imperial city and make them a burden and anxiety to the government. Little does he know the spirit of the British nation."_


	5. Chapter 5

_A/N: Edited this after a fencing club night, decided to wrap part of this chapter, which is mostly filler, around a fencing match. It isn't all about magic in this, a lot of it is tactical thinking. When to cut, when to thrust, when to parry, when to feint. On top of this, one or two more chapters before we begin getting embedded in magic. And yes, to spite those who are arguing that I'm too technical, I've decided to be even more technical than ever. Hope you enjoy, or to anonymous flamees, choke on it. One last chapter of moving the pieces into place on the chessboard, then a chapter or two of action, and into the magical world._

* * *

 **December 2009, Otterham Creek, River Medway, Kent.**

Looking out from the starboard bridge wing of his ship, Harry watched as the last boat was brought up and stowed alongside the funnel. The fast frigate Ulysses, rescued from the cutter's torch by his grandfather, clattered noisily as the anchor chain was raised, and then the ship began to vibrate as the propellers churned in the waters, the sleek bow slicing through the dark waters.

A flashed signal from one of the other fast frigates wished him luck. With a slight smirk, Harry watched as the aldis lamp lit up again with the words 'and expect you to do without it'. He turned back into the bridge as they navigated in the darkness, smoothly pulling away from their anchorage and entering the Medway basin. The dull whine of her combined gas and steam COGAS turbines powered her towards the open sea.

With a brisk wind over her bridge, speed began to pick up as the cold and unforgiving waters of the North Sea beckoned with around a hundred-thousand horsepower coursing through each shaft from her engine rooms down to the propellers, great bronze blades with churned at thousands of revolutions in the water.

Glancing at his watch, Harry grinned. There was plenty of time to intercept the arms shipment.

* * *

 **December 2009, Ravencroft Manor, Kent.**

Since his retirement from the post of Officer Commanding, 22 SAS and his promotion to Director of Special Forces, Harry's work had increased beyond anything he'd done before, and the same for his personal unit, Section Five. It wasn't like any of the dozen wars they'd fought in, there was no desert, no jungle, nor the cold and lonely valleys of the mountainous Balkans. Their war was being fought on British soil.

The headquarters was the lowest vaulted croft of Ravenscroft Manor, deep beneath the manor itself, spreading out as far as the moat itself. The walls were plastered with maps, each pillar of the vaulted croft surrounded with filing cabinets. A gun rack sat by the dark-stained and iron-studded door, and it was in this domain that Harry ruled supreme.

Andrew McCabe, a one-time steelworker from Glasgow, turned paratrooper and SAS Warrant Officer looked on. Jock McCabe had fought in more wars than his boss, his first fights being on the estates of Belfast and Derry. He'd parachuted into the cold South Atlantic to join the carrier Hermes to attack the Falklands, he'd fought in the Lebanon. And then his most unusual task had been to act as guardian and advisor to a boy barely into two figures of years.

Harry Potter. A wizard. The Wizard if MI5 were to be believed, the be-all and end-all of wizardry. Jock's beliefs had been significantly altered in the years leading up to the 1990 annihilation of the purist movement as it was then. They'd been altered even further since. Watching his boss balancing threat after threat to Britain, wading through paperwork and memorising one face after another – then killing them, he wondered if Harry was some kind of primordial chaos entity. Knowing what he did of the Potter family's history, it wasn't beyond possibility, or even probability.

He surveyed the walls, where detailed maps of the major cities of Britain were neatly labelled. The majority were the marijuana symbol, though a good few were the symbol of marijuana on top of an image of a pound coin. Consumers and dealers of drugs, one of the roots of petty crime, itself the beginning of the slippery slope to many other things which did significant damage to Britain's economy.

On a projector screen on the wall was a map of the entirety of Britain. Passing the Medway Forts on that same fateful route as Admiral de Ruyter had once sailed, the fast frigates Ulysses, Relentless and Rocket cruised towards safe anchorage in Chatham, having been once again employed for the smuggling of arms and drugs from the Continent. Jock moved the markers around where the ships had landed their cargo as he read through the reports, preparing to send off the intelligence to the police units he was playing with on this operation.

Tracked weapons and drugs would allow them to clear their cities of much of their major crime, and hopefully he'd be able to track any extremists in the city, or indeed the area. The cost of drugs in the petty crime and violent crime used to fund addictions was truly damaging. They won, and in the meantime, he had turned Kent Police, Essex Police and Sussex Police all heavily occupied in anti-drugs work, and they'd be up to their neck in it for weeks.

Turning to a second, paper, map of Britain, he eyed the reports pinned to it. The purist faction had reformed under a coalition of the more extremist wizarding nobles. Luckily, for some time, they hadn't been able to put aside their egos and cease squabbling, until recently. That had rendered them impotent for a precious amount of time, which allowed the SAS a little leeway with which to make their moves.

The door swung open, admitting a shapely blonde in the desert camouflage favoured by Harry's personal staff who formed the Special Air Service's 'Section Five'. Sweeping her hair out of her eyes with one hand, she passed a file to Jock.

"Anything interesting?" Jock asked as he perched on the edge of a desk.

"Just political intelligence and analysis. Reading it saps my will to live." Amy commented as Jock flicked the file open; "I wonder sometimes why we bother with a government. There are some good ones, there are some bad ones, there are some downright fanatical ones, and then there's the majority who are merely incompetent. Unfortunately, the incompetent seem to be being led by the bad ones."

"Democracy m'dear." drawled Jock; "It's what we have to put up with to avoid being either a fascist or communist nation. As tempting as burning the government to the ground sometimes seems. Democracy is the right to be ignorant. That's why we're working to erase any threat to the safety and security of our population. Democracy is why we, some specialist units of the army and our intelligence services work in the shadows to keep the darkness at bay. Before you joined the Special Reconnaissance Regiment, the night after the bombings in London, Harry said something to us, remind me..?"

"We can survive worse." Harry quoted himself as he strode in, windswept from a short flight in an open-sided helicopter from Chatham; "London can survive worse. 2043 will be the two-thousandth anniversary of the city. It has revolted, suffered revolution, been burnt to the ground twice, razed to the ground once, bombed, firebombed, and conquered at least twice, but no matter what has befallen it, England and indeed Britain, its people, its throne and its capital have endured."

"All very well, but I thought we had something to do?" Amy's eyes narrowed at Harry.

"Indeed." Harry grinned; "I've not been unproductive, I've diverted all major police forces in the South-East with several huge shipments of drugs and arms, making myself a fair bit of money in the process, though I'll probably need to spend a bit clearing up the result of my actions. However, there's this..."

He handed a file to Amy who flipped it open. Photographs, aerial reconnaissance photographs.

"I put a Canberra up, having tracked down your sister. I'm working on the assumption that T-Time is within forty-eight hours, with mass mobilization around that time. In the meantime, I have some further preparation to do." Harry told her. "Jock, with me, Amy, hold the fort. And don't do anything reckless."

"I'd think you didn't know me at all." Amy offered innocently.

"I'd think I know you well enough." Harry gave her a penetrating look; "Two days Amy, two days."

She nodded, linking hands with him for a brief moment.

"Why? Why all this? We've given years of our lives, in the case of some of you, decades, to the service of Queen and Country, obeyed orders from Whitehall and Downing Street, why have they suddenly decided to take action against us?" Amy shook her head, slumping against a pillar next to Harry, staring up at the great vaults.

"Jock." Harry jerked his head at his SNCO.

"Communications between representatives of the Prime Minister and various Eastern European Private Military Companies indicate an intent to hire their men, with leadership provided by Blackwater, a company we've had the unfortunate experience of dealing with before." Jock explained; "This unholy matrimony is under consultation to provide a private security force for the Prime Minister to replace special operations and take the role of the Gestapo. Current intelligence is actually working on either an outside force on the government, or dubious mental stability of the soon to be ex-Prime Minister."

"He's gone mad?" Amy asked incredulously as the two men nodded solemnly; "Why the hell is it left to us to act?"

"God knows. All I can, we can do, is act. Jock." Harry replied.

"I'll get on it, had to warm the damned things up." acknowledged Jock.

* * *

 **December 2009, Ashford Locomotive Works, Ashford, Kent.**

When Harry acquired the huge, and mostly abandoned, Southern Railway Locomotive Works at Ashford, he had little in the way of plans for it other than as a storage space for the occasions when he couldn't simply stow something in a corner of Ravenscroft, or for that matter in the croft beneath Ravenscroft.

In time, however, it evolved to become an engineering centre where Harry could have spares cast and machine for some of his ships and aircraft. Gradually more went on, and even as Jock crunched across the cinder-strewn ground, he could hear the foundry was at work, casting a new set of wheels for a Black Five, each casting being six feet in diameter and weighing nine-hundred kilos.

Aside from the foundry, machine-shops and other engineering works, the huge buildings at Ashford contained fifteen roads of track, and with some more recent extensions to the shorter buildings, were each a quarter of a mile long. There were dozens more roads in the yard outside, it was now Section Five's personal railway depot. A lot of rail-freight logistics companies used the yard to hold trains on their way to the Channel Tunnel.

In 1995, with the management assistance of Deutsche Bahn, the German Railways company, and Harry's money behind it, he'd munched up the former British Railways freight companies, including all rail freight, the Royal Mail trains and the Royal Train itself for a third of a billion pounds sterling. It had taken eight years before they had seen a penny of profit, but it was now a healthy source of revenue. However, one of Harry's hobbies, other than air racing, lay in the huge engine works.

The year before his railfreight conglomerate came together, he'd bought three steam locomotives for some reason as yet unknown to Jock. Though only moderately powerful express locomotives Wootton Hall, Galatea and Leander prove useful during the Sierra Leone conflict when he was moving arms and munitions from factories to airfields before flying them out to West Africa.

The same year, after a disastrous accident in Durham, Harry decided to acquire the wrecked Blue Peter, and rebuilt it. The following year, another locomotive of similar power and fame joined his fleet, the infamous Flying Scotsman along with the rebuilt Bulleid light pacific Braunton. The engines kept coming. Raveningham Hall and the Duchesses, Duchess of Sutherland and City of Birmingham in 1996, the rebuilt Bulleids Sidmouth and Sir Keith Park in 1997, Britannia in 2000, the rebuilt Bulleid heavy pacific Canadian Pacific in 2001, the Great Marquess in 2003, Canadian Pacific's sisters Holland America Line and Port Line in 2004, rebuilt Bulleid 249 Squadron in 2006, Ditcheat Manor in 2007, Scots Guardsman and Royal Scot in 2008 and 2009 respectively, and most recently, the wreck of Shaw Savill in the last year as a long-term restoration project.

Twenty-one named locomotives and a number of others with no identity except a number. The secret lay in the fact that once again Charlus Potter's shrewd thinking, possibly with a hint of prescience had triumphed. When the short-sighted destruction of Britain's steam infrastructure began, he moved quickly, securing ownership of the scrapyards, and except for one which he used to satisfy the wants of those who sought to preserve the locomotives, he made sure that plenty of photographs were circulated from each scrapyard of the destruction of these engines. A wizard, and a war veteran, he had no trouble with throwing around obliviate spells and smuggling the locomotives through the nights to his own locations.

If there was a man Jock McCabe regarded as highly as the late Potter patriarch as displayed by the man's memoires, he had yet to meet them. A war veteran of the Spanish Civil War, the Winter War, the Second World War and Korea, a father and a nobleman, but as shrewd as any soldier. Killed three years before his son and daughter-in-law, fighting in combat against the terrorists who called themselves Death Eaters.

To maintain the secret of Old Charlus's work, Harry's shed was split into two parts, one always locked and secured. For each engine he publicly owned, a classmate was disguised as that engine, allowing him to run the 'same' engine indefinitely while maintenance or overhaul was needed on one or other of the twinned locomotives. This meant that in the periods when Harry wasn't around simply to throw repairing spells at anything that was broken, another locomotive could be substituted with the same name and number.

Jock soon found the locomotive he was looking for, sat over a deep pit in the concrete, the exhaust gently growling, an acoustic sound. Heaving himself up from the ground onto the footplate of the LNER Raven-designed Class Q7 locomotive, taking a moment to enjoy the warmth of the great firebox and boiler in front of him. Setting his coffee flask on top of the firebox door to keep it hot, Jock began the laborious process of forming up a train. Seventy tons of munitions sealed inside crates wrapped in silk bags which would not burn easily, a total of two shipping containers full of The Hurt awaited in a siding a suitable distance away from anything else.

Working on his own on the footplate, Jock opened the screw reverser to full forward and, with his left hand on the great steel lever, opened the regulator. Where the reverser was the equivalent of a car's gearbox, the regulator was the locomotive's throttle, and with his opening of it, great blasts of steam entered the cylinders, driving the huge rods back and forth to turn the locomotive's wheels.

A great woof sounded six times for each revolution of the wheels as the locomotive surged forward. Keeping a conversation up with the yard's signal box, he brought the locomotive to a halt beyond the junction with the other sidings, screwing the reverser to full back, and with the points set differently, he ran the locomotive back into another siding.

Leaning out of the cab with one hand on the brake, as he had plenty of momentum that he no longer needed to have the regulator open, Jock watched the static container trucks, easing the locomotive to a halt, with a gentle clank between buffers. Setting the brakes hard on, the reverser to neutral and checking the regulator was closed, he dropped down from the cab, working around to between the engine and the containers to hitch them together.

More manoeuvres were required to add containers to the train, more shunting.

The Royal Engineers detachment at Credenhill then asked quietly if they could quietly acquire eighty tons of concrete, a shipping container of rolled-up chain link fencing and a shipping container of wood for urgent repairs and extra building at the SAS base, especially since they were expanding with more units at home and the Special Reconnaissance Regiment having been formed.

So Jock tacked on five sixteen-ton mineral wagons with cement and aggregate. Then there was the request from the Chief Quartermaster Armourer, and he'd added another shipping container full of more rifles, pistols, mortars and Karl Gustav recoilless rifles for a total of six shipping containers and five mineral wagons. A three-thousand gallon tanker was added to the back of the train, weighing in at sixteen tons full, nine Mark Two carriages and a Pullman kitchen car, forty and forty-five tons each respectively. The total weight ended up at seven-hundred and fifty tons.

Soon, Bill joined him on the Q7, Nick and Jack brought the Duchess of Sutherland gently out from the shed onto the back of the train as the Q7 took on water for the last time and then joined the train at the front. With a final check and the crews ready, they left Ashford, the locomotive barking away with a three-beat roar from the exhaust as she took the slack and heaved them up onto the main line with the Duchess on the back, facing south-east as little more than dead weight.

* * *

 **December 2009, Ravencroft Manor, Kent.**

Flexing his muscles slightly to relax, Harry entered the small gym from a side door, pulling the mesh mask over his head, though leaving it up for the moment.

"So, how do we do this?" asked Amy, adjusting her glove before taking her sabre from where it was couched in her elbow.

"Like anything in life, rather like a chess match." Harry smirked, saluting her with a brisk movement; "Everything in its rightful place, then we move. En garde!"

Having pulled down their masks, at the given word, the two fencers jostled for position, swords twitching out to try and draw the other into a movement. Suddenly, Harry lunged, arm forward and sabre still upright, ready to be flicked down on Amy's head. In an instant, she came up to parry quinte, blade horizontal above her head.

Then as fast as the attack had begun, Harry dropped the sword and pronated his hand, and as his foot hit the floor from the lunge, the sword-tip was a fraction of a second from hitting her. Jerking back to give herself a few more fractions of a second, Amy slashed aside his sword and thrust forward, close enough to need no lunge as Harry hadn't recovered. In an instant, her thrust was countered, Harry brought up his back foot and then a stinging stroke lay across her belly.

"Like a chess match, like I just did, my plans for an large and noisy operation to free your sister are designed to cause a reaction, almost a feint if you like." Harry turned back, flexing his sword in his hands; "A reaction that I can exploit."

Amy opened the fight this time, more concentrated. She made an attack followed by a desperate reprise, then as Harry countered and began his attack, she flung out her arm with the sword in it, and with a twitch, flicked it over his parry, the swords meeting for a moment as she counter-parried, and drew it from his right shoulder to his left hip. A stop-cut combining a feint, taking the blade and then a through-cut.

"Jock's moving the pieces into position." Harry explained as they returned to their places.

* * *

Coal crossed the shovels wielded by two stokers at any one time, at a rate fully of an imperial ton every hour if not more. With a seven-hundred and fifty ton train behind the locomotive, the two stokers kept the coal up to the firebox door by swinging the shovels in a pattern, one grabbed coal from the tender as the other emptied a shovel into the inferno beyond the thick steel doors.

Duchess of Sutherland had departed the Ashford railway works in reverse on the end of a heavily-laden train, herself fully laden with coal and water. Pulling them up through Kent, through Tonbridge Wells and across Sussex and into Redhill in Surrey was Vincent Raven's best freight engine, the Q7, which was the most powerful freight locomotive usable on National Rail.

Taking over from the freight engine as the train reversed direction at Redhill, the Duchess with Jock joining the footplate crew, pulled them across the North Downs, onwards past Aldershot Barracks and the Royal Military Academy Sandhurst, continuing west along the lower Thames, by now steaming freely with but a feather of steam rather than a plume of smoke at the exhaust as the Duchess crossed the river twice in its meanderings before steaming into Didcot Railway Centre for water and topping up the locomotive's tender.

Piloted back out onto the main line, the Duchess took off north, crossing the Thames a third and a fourth time, then a fifth time just as they came into Oxford. Steaming fast north-west out of the University City of Oxford, crossing county after county, crossing the Avon twice near Evesham, the straight, flat running line allowed the Duchess to far exceed what was normally allowed for civilian steam traffic, then slowing into Worcester where she picked up, from a siding, a fifty-ton train from Land Rover's Solihull factory to add the weight up to a round eight-hundred tons.

Finally, half-an-hour later, after pounding through the Malvern Hills, eased into a siding in an industrial estate off Hereford station, all within three hours of departing Ashford behind the Raven Q7. The metallic four-beat acoustic clanking of the Westinghouse steam brake indicated her arrival, bringing the locomotive and her train to a halt.

The stop was welcomed, as, despite the four footplate crew taking shifts of half-an-hour at the regulator and swinging shovels, the massive firebox happily swallowed as much coal as they could throw. Heading off to feed and water themselves, the crew allowed the Credenhill-based men to descend on the train.

After the crew returned to the engine and the uniformed military personnel finished unloading the contents of the shipping containers marked 'H', as well as a number of the brand-new Land Rovers, they topped up Duchess of Sutherland's water carrier, the men had refilled her tender from a container full of coal, and they prepared for the run south having boarded six assorted squadrons of the SAS and SRR, leaving only ex-special forces mercenaries and non-critical forces to hold Credenhill.

* * *

 **December 2009, Ravencroft Manor, Kent.**

The clash of steel. Sharp breaths drawn and the sound of a sword striking true.

"I need every man I can trust, but I can't compromise our operations, so I'm moving in retired types to Credenhill, who'll know when to pull back to Caereyr should the need come." Harry continued to explain. "But they, and my men will be sufficiently armed to make it convincing."

Amy shifted back pace by pace, Harry following as their swords clashed in indecisive engagements. Then she moved back too little, Harry following with a flying lunge, only for a sharp pain to flare in his stomach, the result from a passata sotto stop-thrust.

"And a massive locomotive isn't suspect?" asked Amy.

"The locomotive and I shouldn't be connected, I use intermediaries to run my operations. The idea of a pre-World War II steam locomotive should seem inconceivable. Nevertheless, I've got a Canberra watching its progress." Harry smirked. "Jock isn't a fool, he'll get that train through come hell or high water. Orders have already gone out to blind the eyes watching the bases."

"It doesn't give us long."

"It shouldn't take long."

Nor did the next bout. Amy had nearly become a professional fencer, and Harry only beat her with dirty tricks. 'A cheap shot is only ever cheap if it doesn't work' in his own words. She struck him a ringing blow across the side of his mask and recovered to block a counterstrike and even then followed up with a finishing thrust.

Strike, block a counter-attack and deliver a final blow, exactly the method Harry planned for something rather more dangerous than a friendly fencing match with blunted swords. A strike, counter any retaliation and strike again.

* * *

Duchess of Sutherland left Hereford with only a low acoustic growl from the exhaust, a roar from the safety valve, and a gentle hand on the regulator and reverser to keep the eager locomotive from slipping. A one mile descent down a slight slope allowed the engine to pick up speed, and she roared out of the city, heading south, billowing clouds of steam to mark her path, rather more regulator and her momentum allowed her to gather pace for the slog up Red Hill where the gradient reached fully one foot up in every thirty feet of travel at its most severe.

A deep acoustic bellow from her exhaust and the plumes of steam tracked the Duchess as she roared over the peak of Red Hill at the end of the three-mile slog. Then, relaxing into the cruise with the reverser wound back, she stretched her legs. The gentle descent from Red Hill aided her into a purring cruise, the speed of the four cylinders turning the noise from regular barks to a single, sustained purr.

They stormed downhill through Pontrilas, a blast on the hooter as they spotted an 8 Flight Gazelle helicopter circling them out from the SAS training area nearby. Eventually the helicopter buzzed off, and the Duchess's speed came in useful in flattening the steep hills as they crossed the Anglo-Welsh border no less than five times.

The stokers matched their pace, shovelling huge quantities of coal into the firebox to try and sate her appetite for coal as they thundered through Abergavenny, then Pontypool, now firmly on the Welsh side of the border. The remaining ten miles into Newport the locomotive barely noticed, a good descent and ten miles from the engine to eat up while barely trying. Half-an-hour out of Hereford and the train was steaming across the Usk and heading south-east on the triangle just short of Newport Station.

On the triangle, they seperated train and engine, running the locomotive around to the other end, turning it around to face west before beginning the next leg of the journey which would take them under the River Severn.

Gathering speed once more, the Duchess stormed through Monmouthshire, passing a hundred sites of great historic interest before diving beneath the Severn, carried beneath the Anglo-Welsh border by the tunnel. Passing the great airfield at Filton where the Brabazon and the British Concordes were built, the locomotive steamed through the Bristol suburbs, the city itself and then back into the countryside before pounding through Bath flat-out before turning east, south-east and then south alongside the River Avon. Fifty miles of smooth steaming from Newport and the locomotive pulled into Yeovil Railway Museum, detaching from its train and steaming down to the water tower.

On the far side of a meal and a break, the crew resumed their journey, swinging the locomotive about on the turntable to face west, reversing the train with a pilot locomotive from the museum before detaching from the pilot and continuing south, running tender-first into Dorchester, almost within spitting distance of the great earthworks of Maiden Castle.

They then unhitched the locomotive from the train, running it around to the front as the train reversed direction at Dorchester Junction, right alongside Maumbury Rings. Once again travelling forward, the locomotive could get up to speed, roaring across the forests of Dorset, before finally pulling into a siding at Hamworthy two-and-a-half hours after leaving Hereford. Soon, the Royal Marine garrison unloaded the significant number of tons of arms and munitions stacked in their shipping containers for the garrison which would hold RM Poole while the Special Boat Service joined the operation in London.

One open-topped shipping container full of coal had a quarter of its contents shovelled into the tender of the Duchess in preparation for her run home along the South Coast, this time she boarded three squadrons of the SBS. Steaming east through the urban sprawl of Poole and Bournemouth, they soon left behind suburbia and the marshlands around it, powering north-east into the New Forest and then into the sprawl of Southampton. The dockworkers and those simply walking along the waterfront were treated to the sight of the Duchess roaring through the docks, alongside huge piles of containers freshly brought ashore.

With a blast on the Duchess's hooter, they plunged into the tunnel beneath Southampton city, then climbed out, the engine's rhythmic purr taking over from the blasts of exhaust through the tunnel, passing the back gardens of many homes then turning north along the water's edge before crossing the River Itchen, once again hugging the water's edge and then blasting across the short distance to the marshland along the Hamble, along the edge of Fareham Creek.

Well run in that day, the Duchess simply ate the miles without complaint. The crew took turns shovelling, as that was her one fault, a huge firebox that had the boiler steaming best when the fire was built up to the firehole door. The roar of the exhaust and the blast of her hooter must have interrupted that day's schooling at the primary school and at the site of the Roman palace in Fishbourne. Steaming through Chichester, they passed not far from the imposing Norman cathedral that lay at the centre of the city of Chichester.

Thundering across the Arun heading north to pass short the cathedral town of Arundel with its great fortress towering over all, the Duchess turned east, steaming along the coast through the serried ranks of identical retirement cottages littering the south coast, steaming within visible distance of the great Lancing College Chapel before steaming across the Adur. A north-eastward spur took them down through a tunnel, slowing as they exited, then steaming backwards into Brighton Station.

Changing direction again out of Brighton Station, the Duchess pulled the mostly-empty train out from a dead stop, barking and sending plumes of steam skyward as she once more headed east through yet more never-ending suburbia before finally they broke out onto the South Downs, crossing the Ouse near Lewes, passing the huge ruins of the fortress at Pevensey and the remains of Hastings Castle and then came inland, thundering across the Kentish Downs, and then finally, two-and-a-half hours out of RM Poole, they came into Ashford station, where the Q7 piloted them into the yard at Ashford, a bit over ten hours and five-hundred and forty miles after they'd left.

Jock climbed down from the engine after seeing to it that the fire was dropped out and fresh coal laid on for the next day's working, and then collapsed into one of the beds in the sleeper cars parked up outside the works. He could hear the barks and shouts of the Senior NCOs of the Special Air Service, the Special Boat Service and the Special Reconnaissance Regiment, barracking their units in the sleeper cars for the night, and arranging patrols to secure the yard. In one yard were three squadrons from each of the crack special forces, six from RAF Credenhill and three from RM Poole.

The last reinforcements were ready for the closing moves of Harry's chess game, where it would be won or lost. The fact that their location wasn't known would be good enough protection for a couple of days, then they'd have to be moved. But by then, Jock expected they'd already have been put into action.

* * *

"I must make one last trip, to Sandringham in Norfolk." Harry's explanation continued as they moved back into the en-garde position; "To gain a crucial last ally, perhaps not completely necessary, but useful if one doesn't want to dig out treaties dating to before the Tudors. And then, we strike!"

Swords flashed for a moment, before the fight was over, the last point to Amy, as her sword flicked around Harry's and cut him from collar to guts.


	6. Chapter 6

**December 2009, Kent Police Headquarters, Maidstone Police Station, Maidstone, Kent.**

A black, mid-nineties Jaguar XJ purred up outside the gates of Maidstone Police Station, the sprawling headquarters of Kent Police Force. Behind the wheel, a red-capped Royal Military Policeman looked out from under the steep brim of his hat, pulling to a halt inside the open gates just in front of the barrier across the entrance. A brief blare of the horn was enough to summon from nearby a policeman to perform sentry duty for the barrier.

A mostly unassuming car, elegant and somewhat understated, no vibrant colours, save fhe Regimental insignia on the front wings of the car that would mean little to nothing to the average person. The status, however of the black Jaguar as an official staff car of an army unit, was fairly obvious. A buzz and the rear left window rolled down, exposing the somewhat aged two-star Major General sat in the back.

"Constable, Major-General Vincent de Clare, here to interview a person in your custody." the General in the back rapped out in curt tones to the police officer.

"Yes sir, first right beyond this wing, I'll have someone to meet you, park where-"

"Drive on." ordered the Major-General as the barrier rose, ignoring the constable.

The Jaguar purred under the raised barrier, pulling into a car park, circling briefly before selecting a spot.

"Fifty yards from the prison block, facing outwards for a quick getaway." muttered the RMP Sergeant from the front seat as he parked the Jaguar. "Watchkeeper, eyes on?"

" _Copy, Watchkeeper orbiting one mile south-west at flight level six-one-zero. Endurance is three hours._ " his radio buzzed.

"Archers, analysis?" Harry asked.

" _All radio emissions through pylon in inner car park. One HARM ready._ "

"All channels, all channels, Wolf Commander silent. Out."

Harry climbed out of the car and opened the door for his butler, standing to attention, carefully concealing the carbine under his greatcoat. With a nod to his 'Sergeant' Victor unfolded himself from the back of the Jaguar, looking around as he fitted his peaked cap with all its braid onto his head, adjusting it slightly. He regarded the small deputation of police officers approaching with slight haughtiness, as befitting a two-star general.

"Superintendent Marks." the leading police officer introduced himself.

"Major-General Vincent de Clare, formerly of Her Majesty's Royal Scots Greys, and more recently of the Royal Scots Dragoon Guards, here on official Government business." Victor introduced himself. "My aide de camp, Sergeant Jameson, Royal Military Police."

"I heard you wish to see one of my prisoners." stated Marks; "I can't think which one would interest you, mostly drug dealers, car thieves, petty criminals, the occasional violent criminal."

"I think you know otherwise Superintendent." said Victor with a cutting tone; "Sergeant?"

"Sir. Sergeant Elena Fitzrichard, arrested on orders from London as part of a tracking of her movements." Harry barked out. "She is being held here indefinitely under the Terrorism Act 2006, suspected of aiding and abetting wanted war criminals, attempting to pervert the course of justice, obstructing officers and resisting arrest."

"Thank you Sergeant." Victor looked expectantly at the Superintendent. "Well, hurry up!"

"I'll need to see ID." Marks demanded.

"I really don't see why." grumbled Victor irritably; "Jameson. Apparently we need papers. My briefcase."

Harry produced the aforementioned briefcase, avoiding revealing the broken down rifle in the case as he removed papers.

"British Army identity card with numbers. Letter from Chief of the Defence Staff to Major-General de Clare." he said gruffly, presenting them to the superintendent. Just in case, he'd had the Chief of the Defence Staff's phones hijacked and the capability to reroute calls, and had his e-mails hacked, along with those working with him. There would be no checking their identities.

"Good. If you'd like to follow me." Marks said after giving them a brief once-over and handing the papers back to Harry.

* * *

Dragged into an interview room, Elena managed to put an elbow into the kidney of one of her former colleagues, hearing a snort of amusement, she looked up from the chair she'd been nearly thrown in to see a man of some years, in a fine military uniform sat opposite her across the desk. The sound of amusement came from the man stood over his shoulder, wearing a rather simpler uniform with three stripes on his arm, a red peaked cap with a peak of gleaming black which came down so severely as to cover his eyes.

"Miss Elena Fitzrichards, lately of Kent Police, most recently a suspect in a war crimes case being brought by a government-funded law firm working on behalf of complainants from war zones in which we have fought in the last decade." the officer read off smoothly; "Sergeant Jameson, you're dismissed for the moment, go and gorge yourself on some of those awful doughnuts and execrable coffee so beloved of the constabulary."

Harry snapped to attention from the at ease position, hesitated a moment before walking out so stiffly that it seemed like someone had surgically implanted a telegraph pole to his spine. Picking up his own briefcase on the way. Elena faintly heard him enquiring about a lavatory before the door swung closed. Albeit not all the way she noted.

"Miss Fitzrichards, the request of the establishment is quite reasonable. The location of your sister with whom you met not one week ago." Victor pushed, playing for time. "Or perhaps we can come to an... arrangement?"

* * *

Harry noticed the police officer had also entered the same lavatory block as he had, and in one move, swung him around to face him, one hand on the back of the officer's head and his forearm across his throat. In seconds the constable was unconscious on the floor, dragged and locked into a cubicle while Harry changed in another.

"Wolf live, T-minus two. Juggernaut Alpha green."

Piling his RMP uniform outside near a fire alarm, avoiding being seen by a CCTV camera, he emptied a can of lighter fluid onto it before preparing a match to light. The fire wouldn't spread, but it would create plenty of smoke.

" _Juggernaut Alpha in position. One truck crash coming up._ "

A screech of brakes, the howl of a lorry's air horn, and then a loud bang. With any luck, the second entrance and exit from the police station was blocked.

"T-minus one. Setting alarms off. Go-cat, go-cat.""

He dropped the match and the clothes went up. Heading back towards the interrogation room, he heard the ringing of the fire alarms and the evacuation beginning. In about thirty seconds he would hear whipping of rotor blades as a Lynx dropped in the remainder of his team.

* * *

"I can tell you where to find my sister." Elena finally broke after agreeing a deal with the officer across the desk from her. She gave a shaking sob; "Will you let me go?"

The officer smiled gently and produced the key to the cuffs that were holding her back. He'd demanded it from the constable, and as a Major-General, got his way. He quickly unlocked the cuffs before sitting back down.

"Your turn Miss Fitzrichards."

There was no reply, nor snide remark, merely an efficient use of energy as the young woman swung across the table and went with one hand for the sidearm that Victor was wearing, and a the heel of her palm driven at his solar plexus.

Victor quickly blocked a flurry of blows before his own training, and his service in Korea and later with the Australians, in Vietnam, came back to him. A quick kick to the ankles and a firm hand to the sternum drove her back into her chair. Almost smirking, he admired her acting skills, the crocodile tears vanishing in moments. Reaching into his pocket, he produced a small blue orb with one hand while holding her back with the other.

"I had hoped you'd be cooperative." he frowned; "We found this where you met your sister. Are you aware of what it is?"

"A small bomb that I'm hoping will blow your bloody hand off." she snapped.

"A small bomb indeed, a flashbang. However, it is not going to blow my hand off." Victor grinned.

" _Lurch, Cat is one-five seconds out. Prepare, T-minus forty-five._ " his radio buzzed quietly.

"Partly this won't go off as the pin is still in and thus it cannot be triggered." he noted; "Secondly, I would not be so stupid as to detonate it in my own hand."

Fifteen seconds gone. He could distantly hear the clatter of a Lynx helicopter approaching.

"You cannot deny who you met, when you met. I want to know why you met and where I can meet your sister." Victor monologued, a hint of a smirk as he noted Her Ladyship's sister had clammed up completely.

" _ALL CHANNELS, ALL CHANNELS, THIS IS THE WOLF COMMANDER. WE ARE GREEN. STRIKE! STRIKE! STRIKE!_ " his radio howled.

Turning in an instant, Victor drew the pin out and hurled the device through the reflective glass, grabbing Elena by the shoulder and dragging her behind the desk, snapping a pair of ear plugs around her head, just in time as the blast shattered the reflective glass with a horrific noise that was still audible even through his own.

" _ARCHER. HARM LOCK. FIRING!_ " called his radio earpiece. The ceiling up the corridor collapsed inward with a blast, followed by three dusty figures emerging from the collapsed plaster and insulation.

"MOVE MOVE MOVE!" bellowed Harry from the end of the corridor, throwing an assembled suitcase gun to Victor, a battle rifle.

" _Juggernaunt Bravo is moving. Rear exit blocked._ "

They moved quickly and cleanly through the building, blowing their way through a blockade of officers using flashbangs, tear gas and brute force. The scare tactics of firing bursts of automatic gunfire over their heads worked as the policemen ducked, chips of plaster and concrete flying in every direction.

"Hiya boys!" came a strident call from behind them before a sudden flash and a piercing ring of noise announced Amy's approach from behind, having fast-roped into the courtyard with another of the SAS men. Having thrown a pack of flashbangs and flares, clearing the way for them, they ploughed forward, respirators quickly donned to clear through the acrid smoke and burning magnesium.

Victor faintly saw Harry, now in his SAS camouflage, grab Elena and jam a respirator over her face and dragging her through by the other shoulder. Firing short bursts, Victor chewed holes in the wheels and tires of a small number of police cars outside the building. The flash of gunfire as the seven dashed across the car park to where their Jaguar and a second getaway car, a second, near identical Jaguar, were parked, the latter just having arrived.

Harry saw the smoking crater where the radio pylon had stood, the result of a direct hit from a High-speed Anti-Radiation Missile fired from an orbiting Phantom. He fired at every police car he saw with his carbine, the .50 Beowulf rounds shredding tyres and ripping through bonnets, mangling the vulnerable parts which allowed the engines to work.

They dived into the cars, Nick Zacarias, his Filipino Sergeant, pulling Amy's sister into his car, with Jock McCabe following, as Bill, Jack and Victor climbed into Amy's getaway car. They tore out of the car park, Jock letting fly a burst of GPMG fire from the passenger window into the raised barrier and the sentry office as they passed, dropping the barrier into the road.

"Juggernaut Charlie go!"

The distant crash of a remote-controlled lorry blocking the third and final exit from the police station behind them was a welcome sound. There was no pursuit as all radio communications and the telephone wires had been cut off and all police cars wrecked or blocked in. Harry had no doubt that mobile phone communications were still up and would shortly be in use, but for a few moments, he was happy just to rack up the miles.

The Jaguars, each tuned by him with the same seven-and-a-half litre twin-supercharged engine as Amy's XJS were shifting. The roads were relatively clear, partly due to the recent series of lorry crashes. With his radio constantly buzzing as Watchkeeper updated him with locations of pursuers, Harry evaded every single one, thanking the powerful cameras of the Canberra.

Less than five minutes from the police station, Harry pulled into a farm road, followed by the second escaping Jaguar, eventually leaving the track and racing across a field. A farm crossing lay over the railway, for the moment blocked by a powerful freight engine with a train full of low loaders with cars on board, each under a tarpaulin. The two Jaguars drove up ramps onto the low loader, the occupants climbed out, still running on adrenalin. Tarpaulins were pulled over the cars, the occupants climbing into the one coach, directly behind the engine, lit Molotov cocktails thrown at the wooden ramps as the engine sounded its whistle and began to move away.

The infiltration, assault and escape took less than ten minutes.

* * *

With the rhythmic beats of the locomotive's exhausts drawing them south-east to Ashford where they'd pick up the remainder of the force, Harry quickly checked his men, and two women, for injuries. Covering up the shaking of his hand with a deep draught from a bottle he fished from under a seat, savouring the whiskey's burn, he growled.

"Shut it!"

Immediately the nervous conversation stopped.

"We'll be in Ashford in twenty minutes. Deliver any requestions for armaments and ordnance as all hell is about to go down tomorrow. Then chow and kip." Harry ordered; "Miss Fitzrichard, glad to see you made it through with no major holes."

"It would have been nice to have an explanation beforehand, but I can adapt, and understand why." she laughed nervously, running a hand through her hair before turning to Victor; "General-"

"I'm no more a general than I am an astronaut." laughed Victor; "Merely a glorified dogsbody and long-retired soldier. No, the credit for this operation goes to Sergeant Jameson, or as he is properly known, Brigadier Harry Potter."

"So you're..." Elena's eyes flicked to the flask he produced.

"Not the same one, but your sister reckoned you might want one of your own." he grinned, passing over a flask, near identical to the one Amy had lent her. "We pinched the original one from the evidence room on our way up."

She looked over to see her sister grinning, pulling off a pair of shemaghs that had covered her face and hair, blocking the hot cartridges that had been flying and the eye-watering sulphuric smell of cordite.

"Best get in your sisterly talk now, because these two'll be fucking like rabbits all night long." one of them, a Scot by his accent, made a ribald comment, gesturing to her sister and Harry, neither of whom looked repentant in the slightest. To the contrary, Amy looked _unrepentant_ and smug.

* * *

 **December 2009, Dining Car 3, Ashford Railway Works, Ashford, Kent.**

Ten-thousand variables, if not more. That was what Harry was trying to plan through. He had less than ten hours. A COBR meeting, commonly known as COBRA, Cabinet Office Briefing Room A, had been called for ten o'clock in the morning in response to the attack on Maidstone Police Station. All Harry now needed was a single strike to neutralise the seat of British Government.

Lounging on a comfortable bench seat in the Pullman Dining Car, Harry wrapped one arm around Amy, who was asleep, her back against his side, while his other hand tapping a rhythm with a pen on the briefing document he was reading through he tried to push aside his own misgivings about the task. Democracy... dictatorship. A fine balance. What happened when democracy stopped working? When people voted for the most shiniest heap of shit. When people voted for a representative and ended up with a terrible party. When people voted for a party and ended up with a terrible representative.

When those in Government put the lives of his men at risk, he'd gritted his teeth and tried to do the best by said men. Make sure that they didn't get put in situations impossible to survive. Equipped with whatever he could scrounge from any number of nations and more than a few dubious sources. When they repaid the sacrifices of his men with iron shackles, he'd had enough.

Even if he burnt London to the ground, even if they burnt London to the ground, it would rise again. But what he was planning would need no wholesale destruction, even if he was keeping a cruiser squadron in reserve for heavy fire support to cover a quick withdrawal should it become necessary. In case it was, he made sure that in the briefing documents that the emergency extraction point was Horse Guards Parade.

A strike of Phantoms had been readied by men under his command at several bases across Britain, armed with HARMs to paralyse the air traffic control and radar tracking systems. More aircraft could be brought in as needed. In the end, he simply had to mutter a prayer and rely on the professionalism of his soldiery.

He'd finished working around the yard, using the Raven Q7 to shunt carriages, locomotives and wagons, making up a train that he'd take into London, nine carriages for the men. They'd go into Waterloo International, the old Eurostar station, and there were military trucks sufficient to carry the five-hundred and fifty soldiers across the Thames to Whitehall.

The public would happily ignore such an event as long as it was labelled a security or anti-terrorism exercise. And as far as Harry was concerned, it was a Security Exorcism, securing the nation by removing the dangers of the current government.

Satisfied that all that could be done had been done, Harry slumped slightly in his seat, enjoying the warmth of Amy, who was sat with her back against his side and knees tucked up to her chin on the bench next to him. Reuniting with her sister had emotionally drained Amy, who by her own admittance, had neglected their relationship.

On that subject, he spotted an equally drained-looking Elena pausing in the doorway from the next carriage to his own, raising an eyebrow at the sight. Harry contemplated the situation for a few moments before slipping out from the bench, making sure not to wake Amy, before heading through to the next carriage, grabbing Elena as he did.

"I suppose you've got a few questions." said Harry as he sat down facing her. It was not a question, but a statement.

"A few!" she laughed with a hint of hysteria; "A few doesn't really cover it. I find my sister involved in shady work, with you, that has her labelled a criminal, then I'm imprisoned for aiding her, followed by your rather sudden and violent arrival."

"My arrival was quite peaceful, merely my men's arrival was less so." Harry corrected; "I suppose then you want to know the background to what's been happening, and what we're doing."

Elena nodded numbly.

"Summer and Autumn of '05, A Squadron Special Air Service is deployed to Task Force Black in Baghdad, but with detached HUMINT operatives, including in the southern port of Basra. We're down there frequently, skirmishing with Shiite militia of the Jaish al-Mahdi, supported by Iranian Revolutionary Guardsmen." Harry explained; "Two operatives get captured on a HUMINT mission and end up in the hands of the militias. Moving the entire unit down to Basra, we spend about twenty-four hours sitting on our arses waiting for Whitehall to do sweet fuck-all, before, with the support of the armoured division there under Brigadier Lorimer, we act on our own and start raiding. One of them went wrong and myself with my section ended up down a dead-end backroad with two heavy-machine guns and a company size force shooting at us. Amy's based at Basra with the Army Reserves as part of the Iraqi reconstruction program, and somehow attaches herself to the Quick Reaction Force."

He needed his own flask at this point.

"Let me tell you, there are few things more welcoming than a dozen Land Rovers piling into the fight with GPMGs, grenade launchers and Fifty-cals." he commented; "One car got disabled, the crew jumped out and joined in the gun battle. Amy saved my life, and when we met up at Brize a month or two later, she asked me a favour. There had been rumours going around about the inclusion of women into special operations, you can guess where this went."

"I can join the dots." Elena agreed.

"Sandhurst, then training with the Intelligence, then selection. Result was she's been with the Special Reconnaissance Regiment since, mostly attached to my little unit." Harry provided before sighing; "Unfortunately, we have recently seen a downturn in popularity, culminating in accusations of war crimes. As best we can work out, the Prime Minister has become mentally unstable, and that both royal command and the use of force is necessary to solve the problem."

"You're talking about a military coup." realised Elena.

"Not exactly, merely the threat of force to enforce a Royal Command." Harry elaborated; "The question is how you fit in this picture..."

"Shouldn't you have thought about that before breaking me out of durance vile?" Elena raised an eyebrow at Harry.

"Please, I've become immune to sharp-tongued comments over the last few years with Amy." Harry chuckled.

"Well, if it helps, I might not be up to your standards, but I'm close-protection trained, marksman and pistol qualified." Elena offered; "As I see it, working with you seems like the best option, and as a wanted criminal, it's not like I have many other choices."

"Perhaps you may be of use." Harry rubbed his chin; "I have a principal, codename Magpie, not a trained operator, but will be integral in an operation shortly, and close protection would indeed be useful..."

* * *

The first warning that something was wrong came when the machine-gun equipped Land Rovers, HMMWVs and trucks raced onto Whitehall, blocking the road around the Cabinet Office. Then, with twenty armed vehicles securing the perimeter, the remaining four-hundred and fifty men went in, seven squadrons worth. It was anticlimactic.

The one that every SAS man had been curious about was Operative 'Magpie', a man who Harry had briefly adopted into his own Section Five along with Elena Fitzrichard as Magpie's close protection. The reveal came when Magpie pulled off his respirator, walking into COBR through a line of heavily armed troopers.

Prince Philip, acting on behalf of the Queen, first named Harry the Lord High Steward, and then issued the fateful words to the Prime Minister.

"You're fired."

The Cabinet would remain, albeit under the close supervision and control of Harry's nominated representatives. The Court of St. James would provide a representative to hold the position of Prime Minister until such time as they could clear the legal problems that each side had wrangled one-another into.


	7. Chapter 7

**January 2010, the House of Commons, Parliament, the Palace of Westminster, London**

"And due to unforeseen circumstances preventing the arrangement of a general election until six months hence, in June of this year, We will be seated as ruling sovereign, or one of Our representatives." Her Majesty declared to the House of Commons, having previously summoned them to attend her in private, in the House of Lords, explaining why she had allowed, and supported a military coup, and the acts of treason on the part of some members of the previous cabinet. "I call Brigadier Potter, Earl Potter of Ravenscroft forth. Our personal officer from the Parachute Regiment and named Lord High Steward, first among the the Great Officers of State to step forward. Step forward Brigadier Potter!"

Harry grimaced from his position in the shadows. The cameras were here, and he didn't like cameras. Secrecy, shadows, a knife in the dark. But he'd agreed to this and committed to this. His Christmas had been a brief few days of rest as he scraped around on behalf of the government to bring some kind of stability of currency into place.

Half of the House of Commons and a handful of Lords had been sacked and issued with an invoice, and possibly a court case due to abuse of expenses, but all they'd recovered was a few million. His shattering drugs and guns campaign had netted millions in fines, plus his own profits from those enterprises. Selling the drugs and then having the buyers and intermediate dealers arrested, with the drugs seized and destroyed was a fairly effective tactic, and he'd made a point of pushing most of the profits into a government fund, in exchange for certain perpetual liberties for the Potter family.

His gun-running work was also profitable on two fronts. A number of gangs, extremist cells and other malcontents had bought arms from him for a pretty penny, and then promptly been shut down. His operation to scrounge money went as far as the South America-America drug running, his own major collection of Sierra Leone and Liberian blood diamonds, and defrauding Gringotts had racked up enough funds for the Government to prop it up a while longer.

"Your Majesty." he announced himself.

"Brigadier Potter, you have fought in Our service for..?" asked the Queen.

"Twenty-five years, twenty in the armed forces, serving as a commissioned officer." Harry replied.

"Then none can question your loyalty." she stated.

"I swore an oath, to my monarch, to the throne and to my country." Harry affirmed; "And would swear it again."

"Please outline your recommendations for the armed forces." the Queen requested.

"I have, with the formation of a military committee, sketched a White Paper for defence and security. I shall start with the smallest items, personal arms for our soldiery. For immediate use in operational service; Accuracy International recently purchased, for £10,000,000, the license for the Heckler and Koch HK417s, a modern battle rifle with capabilities in range and power more than double our assault rifles." Harry announced. "I propose a £50,000,000 pound arms purchase of ten-thousand such rifles from Accuracy International, which due to investments since the Falklands War by the Government, with a production staff of five-hundred, can deliver the order within the year."

"This can easily be funded." the Queen agreed.

"A £450,000,000 pound purchase of three-hundred Patria AMVs, a light armoured vehicle protected against light cannon shells and detonations of rocket propelled grenades and upwards of ten kilograms of high explosive." Harry stated; "This would allow the protection of troops on patrol, as well as too and from the battlefield. The rifles would allow squads to extend their range without risking their lives to the same extent."

Thirty years of Gringotts stacking unwanted non-magical currency in a spare vault. Thirty years of them not spending the non-magical cash in the non-magical world. And then him buying it at a rate of one galleon per thousand pounds. That had added up to quite a bit. He was also quietly playing the gold markets, melting down galleons and selling the gold in the non-magical world. Then a good bit of the cash went back into Gringotts, and for every five pounds, he got another galleon, worth two-hundred and twenty-five pounds in gold bullion. And then he'd purchase his sterling back, and continue playing the game.

He'd scammed them out of enough Galleons to fund this at least. And then there was the fact he'd managed to get Ma Thatcher, back at the beginning of the Gulf War, to negotiate with the Americans to cancel the remaining seven-hundred million pounds of debt from the Anglo-American loan, which undoubtedly had helped a little.

"And finally, so as to enable the redeployment of naval forces, the lease of ten Willemoes fast attack craft from Maritime Security Interests Inc. for patrol of coastal waters and maritime policing, and the lease from the same company of the former HMS Beaver, Birmingham, Glasgow, Newcastle and Cardiff to reinforce the fleet, along with the recommissioning of HMS Exeter and Southampton." Harry stated; "The lease cost would be approximately £150,000,000 per annum, including the provision of trained crews. If such were to be done, we would enable the deployment of a further seven combat vessels to allow us to operate a round thirty blue water-capable warships. I have enquired and all ships have been appropriately modernized for modern theatre operations and have been refitted to a condition that would allow a further ten years of operation. This would give us until 2020 to replace all Type 22 and Type 42 warships. Forty percent of the cost would likely be recovered in tax."

Fifteen-hundred crewmen to be paid and fed, the spares and munitions for the ships, it was a fair price. And Harry wasn't too worried about the small profit he'd make through his company, Maritime Security Interests Inc.

The First Sea Lord, Admiral Stanhope stood and awaited permission to speak, which was soon granted.

"Your Majesty, the proposed leases are, at the minimum, unusual, but currently we would not be able to sustain and operational tempo with any more than three surface vessels for three months without putting a resource drain on all other operations." the First Sea Lord stated; "Furthermore it would allow the thirteen-strong Type 23 class to be refitted with the Sea Viper missile system and the Phalanx rotary cannon which would allow a significant increase in the class capability."

"We shall discuss these. Thank you Brigadier, your loyalty and honesty is appreciated. Admiral Stanhope, I shall wish to hear a detailed report on the proposed from you." the Queen thanked them; "Brigadier Potter, in your role as Lord High Steward, I fear I shall have to ask of your services seated in judgement as certain members of the former administration find themselves on trial."

"My duty to the crown." Harry agreed.

* * *

 **January 2010, Ravenscroft Manor, Kent**

The crackle of a powerful engine starting, the raw bellow of power and the shriek of tyres. Victor Dubose shook his head as the new arrival to the manor's garage howled down the drive, the wail of two superchargers and the roar of a V8. Harry had decided to get a new, more practical car for his daily work, and thrashing it around the estate was the best way to relax after said work.

The result was that a Mercedes-Benz C63 AMG estate had been sent off to Malterdingen on the Franco-German border near Strasbourg, where everything except the engine was heavily modified, and then after returning to Britain, Harry had fitted a new engine, bored and stroked out to seven litres for six-hundred horsepower, with new computer software, new camshafts, new valves and two twin-scroll superchargers fitted to power it up to nine-hundred horsepower.

Walking out of the front of the manor, across the moat and onto the gravel parking area, Victor slipped a couple of cartridges into a shotgun, snapping it shut, and as the Mercedes approached at high speed down the long drive, fired it into the air. The two twelve-bore flares burst, slowly descending, attracting the attention of the driver, who pulled in, the blatter of the engine unceasing even as he rolled down the window.

"A letter for you sir, marked Top Secret and Most Urgent." Victor stated, handing the sealed envelope to Harry. "Delivered by a Gyrfalcon, if my book on raptor species is correct."

Harry produced a knife from somewhere, briefly examining the wax seal and the glued edges before slitting it open.

 _To Brigadier HJP, DSF._

 _requesting meeting at your convenience with the utmost haste. Look to yourself, the devil is loose._

 _JSD._

 _Exécutif._

 _Division Action._

 _DGSE._

Harry vaguely recognised the handwriting, although he could not place it. He did however recognise the final part. The Executive of the paramilitary wing of the French intelligence agency, the Directorate-General for External Security. What would this person want with him, especially given the person was undoubtedly a wizard or related to magicals, sending a bird of prey with a missive. The chances of a bird being intercepted by anyone who would understand the contents were low. Who was the devil? He had enemies numbering thousands, though few knew his name and face. Harry frowned as he began joining up the dots.

"I believe I'll shortly be entertaining a guest." he noted, finally switching off the Mercedes. "Is the gyrfalcon still here?"

"Perched on your study bookcase last I saw." Victor confirmed.

"Then I shall have to send a swift reply." Harry stated.

* * *

Harry stood in the centre of the hall of the great keep at the centre of Ravencroft Manor, the oldest part of the sprawling home, the remnants of an Anglo-Norman fortress that the Potters had seized during the Anarchy, a mound half-a-mile to the south the last resting place of its former owners and their garrison.

Beneath the great vaulted roof of the keep, he waited, closing his laptop having tracked the incoming helicopter by radar from Saint-Omer until it vanished below the radar a few hundred feet away. It wasn't long before Victor escorted in a familiar figure.

"Seigneur Delacour, toujours un plaisir." he greeted Jean-Sebastian Delacour, coming forward to greet his old associate.

"Et toi, Seigneur Potter." replied Jean-Sebastian, observing the niceties; "I fear 'owever zat my business will leave me with a bad taste in my mouth."

"I know the feeling well-enough." Harry agreed grimly; "My thanks Victor."

Victor sketched a slight bow and departed, as Harry led Jean-Sebastian to a small nook below an arrow slit, where two seats were carved into the stone, and a rock jutted out, carved flat on top to form a table.

"Few come into the old keep, you can be certain of privacy." Harry stated, producing a bottle of wine and two chalice-like cups as they sat down.

"Zen I should like to get straight down to business." Jean-Sebastian commented as Harry twisted out the cork; "I 'ad 'oped to be seeing to my own vineyards, yet when duty gives its call, we must answer."

"Oh?" asked Harry, pouring.

"Zere 'ave been issues and failures within ze DGSE and the Division Action, I was persuaded as a soldier and a diplomat to take control. I would like to make a trade. I 'ave no trustworthy men, and in July, two men now under my command were betrayed, kidnapped and one of zem is still a prisoner in southern Somalia." Jean-Sebastian explained; "I need zat man out, I need to clean ze 'ouse, you understand?"

"Indeed." Harry said neutrally as they both took their cups. "I was operating in Somalia two years back, August and September '08, commanding a joint Anglo-Australian-Canadian task force from the SAS Regiments and CSOR. We tracked down a couple of kidnapped journalists, gunned down the militants and successfully extracted without casualties."

"A good vintage." Jean-Sebastian commented; "I can offer you in return several zings. Firstly, tranquillized, sedated and bound in my 'elicopter is a man wearing ze brand and uniform of zose known as ze 'Death Eaters', and is yours to do wiz as you see fit. I will also be willing to make special arrangements for Anglo-French relations."

"Generous indeed. I hear worrying whispers of a naval arms deal with Russia... you understand I cannot endorse the supply of these vessels?" Harry savoured the sour tone of the wine as he spoke.

"I 'ave 'eard the Russians don't look after their ships and munitions well, and zat zere are still many Second World War mines littering Russian waters." shrugged Jean-Sebastian.

"The French seem to do a line in blowing up ships." Harry snorted inelegantly.

"Touché. 'Owever, it is not somezing zat I would make une 'abitude of." Jean-Sebastian replied.

"Would it be of interest to you to know I have a filing cabinet full of dealings with French arms dealers, gun runners, drug smugglers and such, just waiting to be acted upon." Harry asked.

"It would indeed. Anozzer trade?" enquired Jean-Sebastian.

"I find myself needing answers. I remember speaking to you more than once those twenty years ago." Harry replied; "You have heard of the turbulent events in Britain these last months?"

"Ze Prime Minister resigned in disgrace and departed into Crown custody, ze Cabinet returned to their role as servants of your monarch, all on one lightning-fast thrust by specialist military operators into ze heart of governance in Whitehall?" Jean-Sebastian raised an eyebrow; "Indeed I 'ave 'eard, and watched."

"Your thoughts?" said Harry.

"A well-done zing. Better done zan ze _Révolution Française_ and executed wiz a certain elan, ensuring a smooth transition. If my sources speak truly, it was also a well-deserved zing." Jean-Sebastian commented; "Do zey speak truly zat ze British Armed Forces was to be gutted under false accusations of war crimes?"

"The Special Forces divisions at least." Harry confirmed.

"A little revolution, now and zen, is an 'ealthy zing, don't you zink?" asked Jean-Sebastian. "If I were not to do it your way, I would zertainly not 'ave sat back and done nozzing."

"My thanks." the slightest hints of a weak smile appeared on Harry's face; "Nonetheless, revolution is not something to make a habit of. I find myself, however, having to turn my eyes north, towards Hogwarts. There are rumours appearing, you've got your hands on a robed and branded Death Eater, I hear tell that Theodore Nott leads a resurgent purist faction on the Wizengamot, and much much else."

"I shall endeaveur to offer you what assistance I can spare, but I fear my own troubles are many and deep-rooted." Jean-Sebastian sighed.

"What of your family?" asked Harry cautiously.

"Appoline knows of my work, Fleur has some idea, given her own profession, following me into the Marine Infantry Parachute Regiments, I suspect your influence there." Jean-Sebastian commented; "Zough these days she spends much time in France on diplomatic and intelligence work, or following Gabrielle on 'er expeditions and keeping 'er out of trouble."

"I'll admit I don't recall discussing my work with Fleur." Harry frowned.

"As far as she 'as mentioned, you didn't. She only put it together after finishing 'ealer training and enlisting as a medic." Jean-Sebastian commented; "I believe she saw you at Djibouti on one occasion."

"Hmm... probably mid-'93 or early '94." Harry racked his brains.

"So, back to business. Your assistance with the Somali situation, my insurance zat ze 'elicopter carriers never reach Russian service, your assistance in cleaning house, my intelligence services on the magical situation, your intelligence on drug and gun running in France and a favour on my part, perhaps the supply of arms?" Jean-Sebastian asked.

"A deal indeed." Harry agreed, and they drained their glasses, shook hands and stood.

"I should like to introduce you to my bodyguard, Alec Desraulx, 'e was ze handler in Somalia for ze two men who were captured there. On a completely different subject, what part of ze English Channel iz deepest?"

"Probably Hurd's Deep, directly north of Lannion, and directly west of Guernsey." Harry replied, then asked the Frenchman; "Is this going to be one of those meetings where the best shot wins?"

"Per'aps the fastest shot." shrugged Jean-Sebastian, noting as Harry idly thumbed off the safety catch on his pistol and pulled the hammer back. Condition Zero, loaded, hammer back and safety off. "You asked for my zoughts on your work in London, would you accept a sliver of my advice?"

"Of course."

"Then my friend, remember what we do in life echoes eternally, what we don't do condemns us to the footnotes of history. It is in right action that a man makes himself great." Jean-Sebastian advised sagely; "I do not think it is your destiny to sit and watch as the future becomes the present, and the present becomes history."

"A man's destiny is what he makes it." stated Harry firmly.

"It is indeed. So what will you make your destiny?" Jean-Sebastian asked; "Wait, don't tell me, just think on it. Are you ruler or ruled?"

"I'm a soldier, not a king." Harry disagreed.

" I 'ave 'eard zat to ze last man, your special operators follow _your_ leadership regardless of death and dishonour. A crown does not make a ruler, we stand at a crossroads mon amie, you do not have to be a king to rule. Our magic could give us kingship." the elder man laughed; "Non, what makes a ruler is ze balance of force and friendship, of violence and diplomacy. Zere is undoubtedly conflict ahead in England, and I will be watching. I will give you this warning. I have heard disturbing rumours that become worse when brought together. A necromancer in the employ of the purists, artefacts linked to a man named Tom Riddle, gathering the surviving of his branded servants."

"What should I make of this? Can a necromancer do any more than summon a ghastly shade of an old enemy?" Harry demanded.

"I do not know what sorcery goes into the Dark Mark, so I cannot answer zat question." Jean-Sebastian shook his head. "Worse, many mezzods, and artefacts, 'ave survived to magnify powers, such as the darker powers. Necromancy, blood magic, and demonology are just a few amongst zem."

"Look to yourself, the devil is loosed." Harry quoted; "Do you have any solid evidence?"

"No more than a whisper, coincidences and disappearances." replied Jean-Sebastian; "Not even the captured one knew. They're operating in six-man cells, through intermediaries from a command council."

"The other five of his cell?" Harry asked.

"Dead."

"Then I suppose my work begins." sighed Harry.

"Muster your allies, your name 'as weight in Britain. Respect and fear alike, and you can 'old dominion over sea and skies." Jean-Sebastian advised.

That was not a bad thought. In a wizarding conflict, nobody had ever introduced photo reconnaissance, ground attack, strike and air combat assets. And while the ship did exist in the wizarding world, the evolution of the ship had stopped in 1692. Harry had a replica of a ship built in the 1690s, the Pélican, and while it was a useful sail-training ship and a bit of a money-earner for film making, he would far rather use a thirty-knot gun cruiser in conflict.

"I will. First I have to make one half of this world stable, that it can run itself without my intervention." Harry agreed; "Then I will turn my eyes to that which is magical."

He was not exactly expecting Jean-Sebastian to burst out laughing.

"My friend, 'Arry, if we are anyzing alike, and anyzing like what I believe you to be, 'zen you are wrong. We feed off trouble and turmoil, chaos is our lifeblood, conflict our bones! True peace is impossible, and besides, it would be an 'ellish life for us both."

That might have been true.

"We live and fight in ze day and age of computers, of sea and sky being conquered." Jean-Sebastian continued; "Maybe zough, it is time for a _different_ way. A return of ze old ways, old and arcane."

Harry thought deeply on that as their conversation ended. The arcane magicks were wild, powerful and frequently unpredictable, and perhaps a power to be investigated. In the meantime, he had a suspicion that Jean-Sebastian would soon have a body to dispose of. The start of the gruesome task of 'cleaning house'.

Nonetheless, he could adapt to situations, and this was no different.


End file.
